


What have we become?

by Jlocked, The_Lady_of_Purpletown



Series: W-trilogy [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Humor, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Romance, Sex, Smut, own cases
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 54
Words: 106,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jlocked/pseuds/Jlocked, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lady_of_Purpletown/pseuds/The_Lady_of_Purpletown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This started as a roleplay on Omegle but turned into quite an epic tale of finding each other and figuring things out.<br/>It all starts with Sherlock being bored and John coming up with a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock lay on the sofa. His hands were balled into fists as he stared at the ceiling. "Bored!" he groaned.  
John didn't even look up from what he was reading. "Then do something, Sherlock."  
Sherlock jumped off the sofa, stepped over the coffee table and paced the room. "There's nothing to do. Everything is so... BORING!"  
John sighed. He knew where this was going."Is there nothing on the website to keep you busy?"  
Sherlock dismissed this with an impatient wave towards John's laptop. "Not anymore... I've been bored all night. Do something..."  
John turned a page, determinedly not looking at Sherlock. "What can I do about it? I'm reading. Not in the mood for whiny detectives."  
Sherlock slumped down on the floor next to John, almost resting his head in his lap so he could see the page. "What are you reading?"  
John moved the magazine slightly, obscuring the contents from Sherlock's view. "It's a medical article on a type of injury I met once in Afghanistan.”  
"Tell me!"  
"Why? It's not something you'll be interested in. It isn’t likely to occur in the middle of London."  
Sherlock got up and started pacing again. "I don't care. Anything is better than this utter mindnumbing boredom!"  
John tried to focus on the article and didn't notice Sherlock walking up behind him, before he was leaning down, his mouth right next to John's ear. "Can I borrow your gun?"  
John jumped and barely surpressed a yelp. "No, you can't."  
"Why not?  
John sighed and put his article down. "Because we don't need more holes in the wall. And I'm certainly not helping you in an experiment that involves my gun and getting shot."  
"I'm not getting shot!"  
"No, probably I would."  
"That's not a certainty."  
"Sherlock, no." John got up from the chair. "Do you want tea?"  
Sherlock slumped down in the chair. "Tea? Boring!"  
"Okay,” John sighed. ”Then what do you want?"  
"I want you to do something interesting. Something unexpected."  
John went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. "Well, you should know by now that I'm plain boring, so I'm very sorry."  
Sherlock got up and followed him. "No, you're not."  
John turned his back, so Sherlock couldn't see his smile. There was a pause between them.  
"You could shoot something."  
John turned, his eyebrows raised. "Right." For a moment it looked like he was actually considering it. "Like what?"  
"I don't know... Anderson?"  
John tried to look disapproving but couldn't hold back a chuckle. "Well..."  
"Interested?"  
"Almost." John's face betrayed him and broke into a smile.  
Shelock perked up. "I can be your alibi!"  
"Yeah, well, as much as he is a pain in the arse, I'd probably better not commit a murder. It wouldn't even help you much, you would know it was me anyway."  
"I never said anything about murder. Just shoot him a little."  
John chuckled as he poured the tea. ´"Sure you don't want any?"  
Sherlock flopped down on the chair opposite him, legs splayed, robe hanging off one shoulder. He was positively sulking. "You can shoot people without killing them, you know."  
John met his eyes. "I know that rather well, Sherlock." He pointed to his shoulder.  
Sherlock managed to look contrite for all of five seconds. Then he leaned forward. Expectantly. "So you agree?"  
John looked resigned. "No." He seemed to be considering something. "I'll do something unexpected in a minute. Let me drink my tea first. You can try to deduce what I'm going to do, meanwhile."  
Sherlock pulled his chair closer to the table, so he could rest his elbows on the table, while he studied John intently. After precisely 45 seconds he looked pointedly at his watch. John continued to calmly drink his tea.  
Sherlock groaned impatiently.  
Finally John looked up. "Deduced anything yet?"  
Sherlock sounded hopeful. "You are going to... shoot Anderson's car?"  
John got up and went over to stand by the kitchen sink. "It's nothing to do with Anderson. And it doesn't involve getting out, I can tell you that. Far too lazy tonight."  
Sherlock stared at him from across the table. "Ok... so you're going to be... incredibly BORING!"  
John's smile was enigmatic. "I think it will be unexpected." He drank the last of his tea and put the mug in the sink. Sherlock didn't know where this was going. He pulled at his lower lip.  
John gestured at him. "Come here."  
Uncertain but curious, Sherlock moved closer. John reached out, wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and enveloped him in a tight hug, face buried in his shoulder. Sherlock froze. John closed his eyes and breathed in Sherlock's scent.  
"Ehm, John?"  
"Hmm?"  
"What are you doing?"  
John's voice was muffled against Sherlock's shoulder. "Hugging you."  
"Oh."  
They just stood there for a while.  
"You wanted something unexpected."  
Sherlock didn't answer. John started getting nervous. "Should I let go?"  
Sherlock considered it. "Ehm... not yet."  
John smiled and stayed where he was.  
Sherlock broke the silence. "This is kind of nice."  
"Yeah."  
Sherlock considered all this new data. "So, you do this a lot?"  
John frowned. "Then it wouldn't be very unexpected, would it?"  
"Well, not with me... I mean, do you do this sort of thing a lot... with ... others?"  
John surpressed a smile. "Not really. You scared away all my girlfriends and even then we hardly ever got to just a hug like this. It's nice."  
"Very." Sherlock experimentally put his arms around John. John smiled again and pressed his nose against Sherlock's neck. They stayed like this for a long time. Again, it was Sherlock who broke the silence.  
"Doesn't it get boring though? I mean, after a while?"  
John shrugged. "I don't think so, though you probably will get bored. I'm relieved that that implies you're not bored yet."  
"You're right. I'm not. This is... interesting."  
"Well. Mission accomplished." He squeezed Sherlock a little.  
"John?"  
"Hmm?"  
"What if I am getting a little bit bored again?"  
"Well. Either you find something to make it interesting again, or I let go and you continue your nagging."  
"I'm not really in a nagging mood anymore..." Then he added: "It's your fault, you know."  
"What is?" John looked up at Sherlock, arms still around him.  
"I was having a real good tantrum going there, and you went and took all the fun out of it."  
John giggled. "I'm very sorry. No, actually I'm not."  
Sherlock tickled him. Just a little.  
"Stop that." John giggled again.  
"Hmmm. Things just got interesting. How about this?" Sherlock moved his hands, and tickled in a new spot.  
Suddenly John grabbed Sherlock's hands and held them away from his body. Sherlock struggled. "Hey!"  
"No tickling."  
"Why not? It's interesting. You make really funny noises."  
"If you keep doing that I'll find out whether you are ticklish."  
Sherlock tried to look superior, but it wasn't really working in this position. "I'm not!"  
"I don't believe you."  
"It's just transport."  
John grinned, wickedly. "Ticklish transport."  
Sherlock tried to wrestle free, but it was no use. John's grip was too strong. "Oh, don't even think about it!"  
"By the way, if it's just transport... I thought you rather liked the hug?"  
Sherlock's tried to look offended, but failed miserably. "So... My mode of transportation likes to be hugged... Big deal."  
John grinned. "Nice explanation." He shifted and was suddenly holding both Sherlock's wrists in one hand. He quickly moved the other to tickle him.  
Sherlock squirmed. "Stop that!"  
"See?"  
Sherlock gave him his best glare, while at the same time looking a bit desperate. "Stop that. I'm not kidding!"  
John stopped, and without thinking leant in and kissed Sherlock's cheek. Then he pulled back, mortified. "Oh - wow - I'm sorry." He quickly let go of Sherlock's hands.  
Sherlock just looked stunned.  
Now it was John who was squirming. "Erm. I'll... just... erm, go."  
Sherlock touched his fingers to his cheek.  
John looked up, surprised. Then he quickly looked away again. He turned and walked to the living room.  
Sherlock slumped down on a kitchen chair, his hand still on his cheek. "John?"  
John was feeling a bit miserable, but stopped halfway through the living room. "Yes?"  
"I'm not bored anymore."  
"Oh. That's - good."  
"Yes... I suppose it is."  
John turned around so he could look at Sherlock. "Right."  
"John?"  
"What?"  
"Should we talk about this?"  
"About what?"  
Sherlock gestured vaguely at John, the kitchen, everything. "This?" He tried again: "Tickling?"  
John sighed. "I don't know. Do you want to talk about it?"  
"I don't know. Do you?"  
"I don't know, either. It depends on what you want to say, I guess."  
Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. "The thing is... and please please do not tell anyone I ever said this... I don't know what to say... I'm... I guess I am a little bit confused. You confused me, John."  
John almost smiled. "How?"  
"You surprised me..."  
"That's what you wanted, right? So there isn't so much to talk about."  
"Guess not... Good job, I suppose."  
John turned away again, but he didn't walk off. The silence seemed to stretch forever.  
Then Sherlock spoke again: "John... I'm bored!"


	2. Chapter 2

It was most definitely the weirdest thing ever to have happened to John. Since the hug in the kitchen, his and Sherlock's relationship had taken a strange turn. Sherlock had become overly affectionate. When they were on a case, everything was as it had always been, but in the lulls between, instead of becoming agitated and impatient, he became solicitous and playful. Like a kitten, really, though that was a very strange concept to attach to Sherlock. He would hug constantly, tickle when he got the chance, snuggle up to John on the sofa and even occasionally hold hands.  
But nothing more than that.  
It was as if the brief moment of intimacy had awoken something in Sherlock, some long forgotten need for closeness and affection. And now he couldn't get enough.  
At this moment, though, the case might have been solved, but there was no question of cuddling. They were running after the murderer as fast as they could, crossing alley after dark alley.  
John saw the knife only just in time. "Sherlock!" He pushed his companion out of the path of the knife and felt a burning pain in his left upper arm, leaving him breathless. His knees buckled and he sank to the ground.  
Seeing John collapse, Sherlock's fist flew, and the man crumpled, knife clattering on the ground. Sherlock's entire focus, however, was on his friend, wanting to touch, protect, but afraid to make matters worse, Sherlock's hand fumbled, weak and uncertain over John's frame. His voice was strained with panic. "John? John? Are you alright?"  
John grunted and pressed his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding. "It's fine, Sherlock. You'd better call Lestrade for our friend over there." He was grimacing. It was only a minor wound, but it stung like hell.  
Sherlock dug his phone out of his pocket but fumbled and nearly lost it. His fingers didn't seem to be working quite right. With a desperate grunt of frustration, he found Greg's number and dialled. Phone pressed between shoulder and ear, he settled himself on the ground and gently eased John's upper body into his lap.  
"Calm down a bit, Sherlock," John said gently, looking up at the distress in his friend's face. He laid a calming hand on one of his.  
Sherlock looked down at John's hand. He knew, intellectually, that he was overreacting, but when John had put himself between Sherlock and the knife, something inside him had snapped, and he had had a glimpse of Life Without John. The sight had filled him with terror, and his reasoning was drowning in one overwhelming thought: I cannot lose him!  
"Sherlock?" John could hear Lestrade's voice over Sherlock's phone, but the detective didn't seem to register it, still staring down at his hand. "Sherlock!"  
For a second Sherlock felt lost, then he caught up. "Lestrade? John is hurt, you have to send an ambulance right now! Huh? Where to?" He looked around, bewildered.  
John rolled his eyes, took over the phone and told Lestrade where they were. "We don't need an ambulance, though, just come to pick up our criminal. No, it's only a small cut, I can manage it myself. Yes, I'm sure, Greg. Now get that police car here before he wakes up."  
The panic inside Sherlock was still there, but the sound of John's calm voice was alleviating it somewhat. "Are you sure you are alright?"  
"Yes, I'm fine, Sherlock, I just told you," John answered with a half smile, giving Sherlock's hand a small squeeze before he let it go and stood up.  
Sherlock held on to John's hand as he got up. He looked over at the unconscious man on the ground. "At least we got him." Then he turned to John to examine his arm.  
"Yes, it would have been worse if he had gotten away," John said, realizing that he half expected Sherlock to hug him. "Careful, it does hurt."  
Sherlock put his hand gingerly on John's shoulder above the wound, examining it. "I think you should have this looked at. It may need stitches."  
"Probably, but I'm really not up to all the fuss of going to the hospital. I could do it myself, if you help me. I just want to be home and sleep for a week or so." The case had been difficult and complex, and neither of them had slept much these past days.  
"Of course I'll help you." Sherlock turned at the sound of cars approaching. "Looks like the cavalry is here."  
"Good." John kept close to Sherlock as the police arrived, leaning on him for support.  
After they had given their statements, Sherlock went to hail them a cab, but he kept looking back over his shoulder.  
"I'm sure they'll manage to get the murderer in jail without your help, don't worry," John smiled. Lestrade had given him a packet of tissues and he was trying to clean away most of the blood on his arm and hand, so the cabbie wouldn't be too freaked out as he got in. He pressed a fresh tissue on the wound, which was still bleeding.  
Sherlock quickly got them a cab, and when it stopped in front of them he opened the door and held it open for John, who gave him a grateful nod as he got in, steadying his wounded arm against his body.  
Sherlock went around to get in on the other side. Once seated, he gave the address, and then tentatively reached out to take John's hand in his. John didn't even really think of it, used as he was to Sherlock's small touches now. They just sat in silence and it wasn't long before they arrived in Baker Street. Sherlock only let go for as long as it took them to get out of the cab. Then he reached for John again, enfolding him in his arms.  
They stood like this for a moment. Then John winced. "You know, it would be more efficient if you opened the door instead of hugging me on our doorstep," he remarked with a rather painful smile.  
Sherlock looked abashed, but only let go reluctantly. He tried to keep a respectful distance as they made their way up the stairs, though his fingers where aching with the need to touch, to confirm that John was still there  
John sagged down on the sofa. "Will you get me the first aid kit, please?" The natural anaesthetic of shock was wearing off, and the wound had been growing increasingly painful since they got in the cab. "And bring some painkillers?"  
Sherlock rushed to comply. Then he eyed John's torn jacket apprehensively. "Can you get that off, without making it worse?"  
John smiled to himself. "I'll try," he answered, getting his good arm out easily, but hissing as the fabric brushed over the cut. Halfway he stopped, catching his breath, before he continued taking it off. "Antiseptic, first," he said in a strangled voice.  
Sherlock tried to be as gentle as possible cleaning the cut. It wasn't deep, but quite long, and to him it looked pretty bad. "Let me know if I'm hurting you?"  
"It stings, but nothing unbearable," John said between clenched teeth. "I don't think I really need to stitch it, just have to make sure that it's clean."  
When he had finished cleaning the cut, Sherlock's fingers lingered a moment on John's skin. Then he withdrew his hand and got up. "Can I get you anything?"  
"You can help to put the bandage around it to keep it clean?" John proposed. "Oh, and now you're in such a helpful mood, a cup of tea would also be wonderful." He gave Sherlock a grateful smile.  
So Sherlock sat down again, and with trembling hands put on the bandage, carefully avoiding to look anywhere but at the work at hand.  
John's attention was fixed on Sherlock's fingers as they worked on the bandage, doing a quite professional-looking job. When he was finished, John looked up at his face, but Sherlock kept his eyes down as he got up and went to the kitchen.  
Why was he in such a state? They had both been hurt before, much worse than this. Why did he fret so? He just couldn't shake the feeling of John slipping through his fingers, lost forever. Was he having some sort of episode? A panic attack perhaps?  
When the detective seemed to stay away a little too long, John got up, feeling a bit dizzy, and went to the kitchen. "You okay? You do know where I keep the tea, right?"  
As John spoke, Sherlock looked up, and his stomach dropped. John looked pale and unsteady on his feet. Sherlock rushed to him, taking hold of his good arm. "You shouldn't get up. You need to rest."  
John rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "Yeah, that doesn't feel like my best idea ever. But I wanted to check on you, you don't quite look yourself this evening."  
Sherlock helped John to a chair. "I'm fine. You are the one who is hurt. Let me take care of you... Please," he added  
John nodded. "Thank you. I'll just go to sleep after I've had my tea." He couldn't help leaning into Sherlock's warmth as the tall man stood next to his chair.  
Sherlock was reluctant to tear himself away. John was so close and it felt so good knowing he was there and real and solid. But he had to get the tea. He brought it back and pulled a chair up right next to John's, sitting close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body.  
John smiled faintly as he accepted the tea and leaned a bit back against Sherlock again. He sipped his tea, feeling it warm his body. "It's good," he observed, trying to reassure Sherlock.  
Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders, carefully avoiding the bandaged arm, pulling at him gently to get him to rest against Sherlock's chest. "You really scared me tonight."  
"You scared me, too. The knife was aimed at you, it could have punctured your chest if it had hit you," John said softly, unconsciously nuzzling Sherlock's chest.  
Sherlock sighed deeply. It felt so good, just sitting here close. He could feel his body relaxing, growing heavy and tired, now that the adrenalin was finally receding. He yawned.  
John quickly finished his tea. "You should go to bed, too."  
Sherlock thought about it and then said: "John, you shouldn't have to climb the stairs in your condition. You'll sleep in my bed tonight."  
John slowly looked at him, too tired to argue. "Okay." He actually looked forward to sleeping in Sherlock's scent. Then he thought of something: "There aren't any smelling experiments going on there, are there?"  
Sherlock chuckled. "Not unless you count some old socks under the bed."  
"I can live with that," John smiled, taking a deep breath in Sherlock's chest before he sat up. "Can I lean on you to get there?"  
"Of course," Sherlock got up and carefully helped John to his feet. He considered putting John's arm across his shoulder but then he'd have to stoop quite low. Instead, he draped John's good arm around his waist. "This okay?"  
"Yeah." John went a bit pale again now he had to stand and walk, but it wasn't for long and he gratefully let himself sag on Sherlock's mattress as they got there.  
As Sherlock went to tuck him in, he unconsciously bent over and gently kissed John's forehead. "Sleep tight. I'll be just on the other side of the door should you need me."  
John sleepily reached out and took his hand. "Can't you stay?" he mumbled, already half asleep. "'s your bed."  
Sherlock eyed the bed. It really was too small for two people to lie comfortably in with any reasonable distance between them. "I'm not sure it's such a good idea. You need to rest..." A second after he'd said it, he sensed a potential double meaning and blushed spectacularly. "I mean..." he stammered. "There's not enough room. You'd be uncomfortable. I'll be fine on the sofa."  
John half opened his eyes, too sleepy to be aware of anything that could sound wrong. "We cuddle all the time. I just like the idea of having you close tonight, and you'll sleep better than on the sofa. Please?"  
Though he knew it was a bad idea, considering John's condition, Sherlock wanted so desperately to be close to John, and he gave in. "I'll be right back," he assured John, picking up his pyjamas and heading for the bathroom to get changed.  
John smiled faintly and fell asleep, reassured now he knew that Sherlock would soon be joining him.  
Sherlock hurriedly changed clothes and brushed his teeth. Then he almost ran back to his bedroom, only slowing down when he could see John lying there, in Sherlock's bed, already snoring gently. He quietly made his way to the bed and climbed in behind John. He snuggled against his back, arm around his chest, and face buried in the short soft hair. Sherlock had no intention of sleeping tonight, and if the morning never came, it would be too soon.  
John mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep and pushed a bit back against Sherlock's chest to be closer. He soundly slept through the night and a good bit of the morning, and when he woke up he felt warm and protected.  
As he had predicted, Sherlock hadn't slept a wink. But for the first time in his life he had been inactive for a prolonged period without feeling the least bit bored. Rather he felt content and fulfilled.  
John finally fully realized that he was lying in Sherlock's arms and he smiled before he turned around and saw that his friend's eyes were open. "Good morning."  
Sherlock smiled warmly. "Good morning. You've slept well."  
"Yeah, I needed it. I hope you did, too?"  
"Oh, yes. Fine," Sherlock lied, not wanting to make John feel awkward or guilty.  
John studied Sherlock's face for a long moment but decided to believe him. He rolled on his back and stretched, wincing as his left arm brushed against the sheets.  
Seeing the grimace, Sherlock was instantly overwhelmed with concern. "John, are you alright?"  
"Hm? Yeah, it just hurts if it touches something. Don't worry." He tentatively touched Sherlock's shoulder to reassure him. Actually he wanted to cuddle up against him again, but now he was awake he felt self-conscious and refrained from it.  
Still warm and cosy, Sherlock reached out and put his hand on John's cheek. "You have to be more careful."  
"Hmm?" John was too distracted by Sherlock's hand on his cheek to really pay attention to his words - a good kind of distracted, at that. Carefully rolling on to his side, he mirrored Sherlock's position by cupping the detective's jaw with his hand.  
Sherlock smiled, wishing they could just stay like this forever. The warmth, the touch. He had never felt so safe in all his life.  
"You know, people would really talk if they saw us like this," John said, smiling.  
"So?" Sherlock couldn't care less.  
John shrugged. He shifted so their noses were touching lightly. "Thank you," he said quietly.  
"Hmm?" Sherlock couldn't resist rubbing the tip of his nose against John's. What an exquisite feeling, he thought.  
"For taking care of me, I mean," John blushed. Sherlock was so close and if only he would be sure that the other man would like it too, he would press their lips together and kiss him into oblivion.  
"No need to thank me," Sherlock whispered, enjoying the feeling of John's breath on his face. "I will always take care of you. That's what I'm here for." Contentedly he closed his eyes. If they could just stay like this, maybe he could indulge in a little nap.  
John bit his lip and kept silent as he saw Sherlock close his eyes. He knew what he wanted to say, but he couldn't risk it.  
With a comfortable sigh, Sherlock leant even closer, revelling in John's scent. It wasn't until he felt something touch his lips that he realized just what he had done.  
John gasped softly at the touch before he leant forward to give Sherlock a soft but firm, chaste kiss on his lips.  
Sherlock had not intended this, but feeling John' response he melted. He sighed again, stroking John's cheek softly with his thumb. Experimentally he tried moving his lips against John's. This felt even better.  
John smiled against his lips and carefully placed his hand on the curls on the back of Sherlock's head. After a moment, he pulled back. "I've really wanted to do this forever," he said, before closing the distance between their lips again.  
Having never considered it, Sherlock couldn't really say the same. He just knew that at this moment, this was what he wanted. This was right.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was absolutely thrilled by this new discovery. The hugging and touching were great. But the kissing was something completely different. He found that, when he was kissing John, his brain seemed to slow down. He could relax and not have to think about everything and anything all at once. When they were kissing there was just: John.  
Nothing else had happened that morning, apart from sharing some kisses, but if he was honest, that was enough for John. He was in love with Sherlock, of course, and had even admitted as much to himself some time ago, but in a way it was overwhelming that the great detective seemed to reciprocate the sentiment, even though he loathed sentiment. The question still stood, though, whether Sherlock would ever be interested in taking things further than kissing, since he had never shown any interest in sex as far as John knew.  
After a while John had gotten up and made breakfast, managed to make Sherlock eat (never too difficult just after a case) and now they were lazily lying in the sofa, Sherlock's head in John's lap as he was muttering insults at the telly and John was reading, or well, at least holding a book.  
Sherlock was letting his hand slide up and down John's thigh taking in the texture of his jeans and the strength of the muscles underneath.  
John glanced down. "That's, uhm, a bit distracting."  
"Oh sorry," Sherlock removed his hand.  
John bit his lip, thinking, and absentmindedly tangled his hands in Sherlock's soft curls, gently rubbing his scalp  
Sherlock hummed. "That's nice," he murmured, cuddling closer to John, his fingers spreading out over John's chest.  
"Hmm... Sherlock?" he asked slowly. "Has there ever been... anyone else, who you did this with?"  
Sherlock looked perplexed. "Did what with?"  
"Cuddling. Kissing. I don't know what you would call this."  
"Oh," Sherlock considered. "Not really, no."  
John nodded. "Okay." He was silent for a moment. "Why are you doing it now, then?"  
"It feels good... And you like it too." It was not a question.  
John gave a short nod in agreement. "But it also would have felt good with other people, earlier, and yet it's new for you."  
Sherlock was silent for a very long time. Finally he answered: "No!"  
John gave him a questioning look, his fingers still threading through the dark hair.  
Sherlock did not elaborate, but instead sought out John's other hand with his own, entwining their fingers.  
"What do you mean, no?" John asked quietly, gently stroking his fingertips over Sherlock's knuckles.  
"It would not have felt like this with others. I don't think so..." For once Sherlock seemed unable to explain. "It just wouldn't," he finished sounding genuinely puzzled.  
John brought up their joined hands and pressed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's. "I think I understand what you mean," he said thoughtfully.  
"Oh," Sherlock looked at him. "Can you explain it to me? Because I think I'm a little lost here."  
"Well." John shifted a bit uncomfortably and was quiet for a moment, looking for words. "I think it's because we're comfortable with each other. We're friends, we live together, we know the other won't judge us for what we do... Though on the other hand, you never care much about people judging you, so I might be wrong."  
Sherlock considered this for a long time. "That might be part of it yes. I can't be sure. Never really had any friends before. Is this how it is?"  
"Erm. Not with any other friends I have ever had, actually. This is more, uhm, what lovers would do." He blushed and looked intently at their hands to avoid Sherlock's eyes.  
Once again Sherlock thought for a long time. His fingers continued to play with John's. Finally he managed a very quiet: "Oh."  
John hardly dared to breathe as he waited for Sherlock's reaction, but apparently there wasn't going to be one. He still didn't look at him and tried to focus on the television, but that obviously wouldn't work - morning telly and something far more interesting in your lap were a bad combination.  
Finally Sherlock's mind had exhausted the topic. "So," he started. "Does this complicate things?"  
John eventually looked down at him. "That depends on whether we want the same things, I guess."  
Another long pause, then: "What do you want?"  
John was chewing on his lip for a while, thinking. "I want us to stay friends. I mean, more than friends is even better, but I don't want to lose our friendship, no matter what. I'd like to keep cuddling and touching you. Perhaps more if you're up for that. And I don't want to do anything you really don't want," he added after thinking for another moment.  
"I see." And then after another pause. "Why do you think we might lose our friendship?"  
"That's not what I think, I'm just saying - I like what we have. I love it, actually. So I want to keep it, and perhaps extend it, but never risk it. That means we have to talk about things. However awkward." He shrugged.  
"I like what we have too. Can't we just keep it like this?" He paused and then added, "I don't know if I can handle anything more."  
"Ah." John tried not to be disappointed. "That's fine, yeah. Of course."  
Sherlock shifted a little bringing his face up, so he could kiss John."I like it a lot," he murmured, and then continued kissing him, softly but insisting.  
John gratefully kissed him back, pulling him up a bit. He softly brushed his nose over Sherlock's as they broke apart. "You could always change your mind later," he said softly. "We don't have to decide everything about the rest of our lives today."  
"That's good," Sherlock agreed, as he, almost experimentally, deepened the kiss, one hand snaking behind John's head pulling him closer.  
John made a small sound as he closed his eyes and let Sherlock take the lead.  
This was indeed fascinating, Sherlock thought. Not only did the kissing seem to clear his mind, but it was obviously having some profound effect on John too. That sound. What did it mean? Just to see what response it would elicit, Sherlock carefully probed against John's lips with his tongue.  
John parted his lips with a soft moan, guiding Sherlock's tongue into his mouth with his own.  
Sherlock gasped at the sensation. He could not understand why this felt so good, he just knew that it did. Suddenly he could not bear the thought of this ending. He clung to John, their lips locked together, tongues entwined. A small whimper escaped him.  
John sucked lightly on the other man's tongue and felt what the kiss was doing to the rest of his body. He gently pulled back and cupped Sherlock's face in his left hand.  
Sherlock made a small complaining sound at the loss of contact. Then he opened his eyes, looking at John. "Why are you stopping?"  
John gave him a small, quick kiss on his lips. "It was getting a bit too intense. Uhm." He decided to distract Sherlock's attention away from his erection by pulling him into a hug and only then realized that that wasn't his cleverest idea.  
Sherlock wasn't surprised. Not really. John had, after all explained that this was what lovers did. It was only a natural response he supposed. But it could be problematic if it made John so uncomfortable that he wouldn't do the kissing anymore. "I'm sorry."  
John looked at him, a bit surprised. "Don't be. It only meant that it was too good." He smirked.  
"But you want to stop now?" Sherlock sounded both sad and disappointed.  
John gently pressed his lips on Sherlock's. "Not really, no," he mumbled against the other man's mouth.  
Enthusiastically Sherlock kissed him back, holding him tight, and loosing himself in the sensations.  
Amused by Sherlock's eagerness, John kept kissing him and forgot about his arousal until he let out a loud moan. Somehow they had shifted so that John was almost lying on top of Sherlock and he quickly sat up. "Sorry. Got a bit carried away." He blushed.  
"It's okay," Sherlock replied. "I don't mind." He reached up to pull John back down.  
John just lay down with his head on Sherlock's shoulder and curiously glanced down, wondering if Sherlock had also been affected by the kiss.  
Sherlock decided that the kissing was probably over for now. He was a bit disappointed, but as long as they could still cuddle, it was okay. He wrapped his arms around John.  
"Sherlock?" John asked, making himself comfortable in Sherlock's embrace and laying his wounded arm over Sherlock's chest.  
"Hmm?" Sherlock hummed, too comfortable at the moment to speak.  
"Were you aroused, when we were kissing? Or is that something that just doesn't happen to you? Which is fine, by the way, I just... wondered." It was a good thing that he was talking to Sherlock's shoulder instead of his face.  
Sherlock considered. Surely he wasn't as visibly affected as John, but his heart-rate was clearly elevated and he could feel a flush on his cheeks and chest. He knew these to be signs of arousal. "I suppose so," he answered, a little surprised.  
"Really?" John lifted his head to look at the detective in surprise. "That's - that's good. Nice. I mean. I should probably shut up." He hid his head away in Sherlock's shoulder again.  
Sherlock chuckled and started sliding his hands over John's back. He kissed the top of his head gently.  
John hummed and nuzzled Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock was feeling very relaxed. He considered if he should let himself get some sleep. It was so very comfortable lying here together. But then he thought how John might slip away while he slept, and he couldn't bear the thought of waking up alone. He sighed.  
"What's wrong?" John asked, hearing the deep sigh.  
"I'm just thinking that we can't stay like this forever."  
"Hmm, probably not, but I don't mind staying here for the rest of the morning. You'd get bored if we'd be like this forever, anyway."  
"Maybe," Sherlock admitted. Then he frowned. "Will you get bored if I sleep for a while?"  
"No, I'll probably fall asleep as well."  
"That's good." Sherlock smiled as he drifted off.


	4. Chapter 4

From that morning on it just felt normal for them to sleep together – well, not normal; every time it was exquisite to curl up together, exchange a goodnight kiss (or more than one) and to wake up in each other's arms in the morning. The criminal world was extremely calm, though, and a few days later Sherlock was busy expelling his boredom with an experiment, when John came in with the shopping. He almost dropped everything as the incredibly nasty smell struck him. "Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing?"  
Sherlock emerged from the kitchen. "Butyric acid," he explained. "I was doing an experiment, and accidentally spilled it on the floor. The smell should be gone in a week or so." He wrinkled his nose. It did smell rather like someone had been sick. "Better keep the windows open till then."  
"A week? Sherlock, you... you are mad. We're supposed to live here, remember? Why don't you ever think before you do something? It's bloody freezing outdoors, we can't leave the windows open for a week," John bristled.  
Sherlock looked hurt. "It's not like I planned to spill it," he snapped back.  
John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He walked to the window and opened it, anger still bubbling in him. "Perhaps I should go live somewhere else for a week."  
"Perhaps you should!" Sherlock stormed to his room, slamming the door behind him.  
John just stood in the kitchen, staring at Sherlock's bedroom door. He was angry and he had never really considered living somewhere else, of course, but he had never expected such a fierce reaction from Sherlock on him mentioning it. Feeling beaten, he sat down in a chair, and wrinkled his nose at the smell.  
Sherlock threw himself on the bed, sulking. John was being unreasonable. It had been an accident. And the smell would go away. Eventually.  
After a while, John decided to go out for a walk. The stink was really unbearable and he didn't even want to think of eating dinner in the flat. For a moment he wondered whether he should ask Sherlock to join him so he would actually eat, but he was still angry and decided against it. He shut the door a little too hard behind him, so Sherlock would hear he was out.  
At the sound of the door Sherlock froze. Had he actually done it? Had John left? He bolted out of his room. As his eyes took in the empty rooms, his insides turned into ice.  
John felt lonely as he walked into a small restaurant for a quick bite. He sat down and ordered something cheap to eat, not caring much about it, and turned around as he heard new customers walk in. "Oy, John! Fancy you sitting here. Where's Sherlock?" Mike Stamford asked.  
Sherlock tried focusing on his experiment, but the smell was too distracting. Soon he was pacing the flat. Where could John have gone? To a friend's house? He didn't have a girlfriend at the moment. Did he?  
Even when John's meal was already finished, Mike and his wife kept talking and talking and didn't listen to his protests when they bought him another drink. He had a good time, but he was starting to feel guilty about keeping Sherlock in the dark - telling himself not to, because the other man probably wouldn't even have noticed that he was gone.  
He wasn't sure how long he had been pacing the darkening rooms. In the end Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed his coat and scarf and headed out into the streets, not really sure where he was going.  
Eventually John could excuse himself and quickly walked back home. His jacket was a bit too thin for the cold and he felt frozen when he arrived in the empty flat. "Sherlock?" He sighed when he realized that the detective wasn't there, and started coughing immediately afterwards because of the acid still hanging in the air.  
Sherlock ended up in a park he knew well from his interactions with his homeless network. He found a secluded corner by a playground, where no-one had settled down for the night yet, and sat down, pulling his coat around him. His hands were freezing, so he thrust them deep into his pockets. That was when he realized he had left his phone at home.  
John put on the kettle - tea would warm him up a bit - and tried calling Sherlock, but he heard his flatmate's phone buzz in the next room and realized that it wasn't any use. "Great," he muttered to himself. He put his tea cup down in the sink and decided to take a shower.  
Sherlock's body was getting pretty cold. He could easily have ignored it by entering his mind palace, but right now he welcomed the discomfort. He needed something to keep his mind off... other things.  
John sighed. He had taken a long shower and put on his pyjamas, but Sherlock still wasn't anywhere to be seen. He put on the telly and grabbed his phone to send Molly and Lestrade the same message. 'Is Sherlock with you?'  
Sherlock was shaken from his self-inflicted misery by the sound of voices. Two men, just beyond the bushes. He caught a few words and gasped. A deal. Sherlock swallowed convulsively, his hand instinctively checking his pockets for money.  
Both answers had been negative, and John started to get worried. Of course, it was Sherlock; it wasn't the first time that he had rushed out at night for some experiment that required moonlight or whatever it was that went on in his mind, but it also meant that he could do stupid, dangerous things. For a moment John thought of going to look for him, but then Sherlock could really be anywhere, even another country if he had been contacted for a case abroad. Although John hoped that he would at least have sent him a text then. He thought of one other solution, but he was far too proud to contact Mycroft and settled on gnawing his lip.  
Sherlock had the money in his hand, when he thought better of it. He turned and ran, out of the park, into the empty streets. When he stopped running, he realized he was almost home. But he couldn't go home. Not to the empty, cold, stinking flat, that had no John in it. He'd just walk by though. Just have a look.  
With a sigh, John turned off the television. There was nothing on that could catch his attention and it was probably better if he just went to sleep and Sherlock would show up, eventually. He took a last deep breath of fresh air before he closed the windows and pulled the curtains in front of them.  
Sherlock's heart fell when he saw the dark windows. He hadn't really expected John to have returned, but still... He walked on, but then his mind, unusually slow, caught up. The windows were closed! He was certain he had left them open. Of course, Mrs. Hudson might have closed them, but he doubted she would have entered the flat in its current smelly state. So... It must be John. Was he still there? Hardly daring to hope, Sherlock found his key and let himself in.  
John decided that he could as well sleep in Sherlock's bed if the other man wasn't there. After all he had slept there during the last few nights and Sherlock probably wouldn't mind, even if he did show up tonight - unless he would still be angry, but at least they would talk then. He lay down, pulled the covers up and sighed, missing Sherlock's warm body in the bed.  
The flat was dark, and the horrible smell was thick in the air. But he could still sense it. That undefinable feeling of John. He must have gotten home not too long after Sherlock left. Had he been worried? Or was he still angry? Surely he had waited for Sherlock to get home, but he must have given up. Gone to bed. That was okay. Just knowing he was here was enough. For now. Sherlock collapsed in his chair, letting relief wash over him, and soon he drifted off to sleep.  
John tossed and turned for a while, and he hadn't heard Sherlock come in. After a few hours he gave up and got up for a glass of water. He walked to the kitchen and only when he came back, did he notice the dark figure in Sherlock's chair. "Sherlock?" he said, quietly moving closer.  
John's voice intruded on Sherlock's dream, which turned from grey and anxious to warm and comfortable. "John," he murmured in his sleep, and he smiled.  
"Sherlock, wake up." John lightly shook the other man's shoulder.  
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. When he registered who was in front of him, his arms shot out, pulling John in to a bone-crunching hug.  
"Wow, Sherlock, are you trying to strangle me or is this a hug? Anyway, you're far too cold! You should have gone to bed, you idiot. Or have a hot shower. Where were you, anyway?"  
Sherlock shrugged, not letting go. "I was lost." He answered.  
"Lost? You know the whole map of London by heart!"  
Sherlock smiled to himself. "I wasn't really thinking about where I was going."  
John gave him a stern look, but then changed his mind. "Come on, we can talk in bed. You're a walking ice cube."  
"Hmmmm." Sherlock slowly unfurled from the chair and let himself be lead into the bedroom. Once there, he just flopped down on the bed and curled up in a ball of contentment.  
John snuggled against him, trying to warm as much of the other man as he could, hissing at the contact with the cold limbs. "You really are an idiot, you know."  
"Thank you," Sherlock murmured, already more than half asleep. "I love you too." He started snoring.  
John pulled up his eyebrows in surprise. "Alright," he mumbled in the dark, not sure whether Sherlock had been sarcastic or not. He decided to put it out of his head until morning and a few minutes later he was also sound asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he felt as if someone had stuffed his head with cotton wool. His throat was sore and his eyes hurt when he tried to open them. The light irritated them and it made him sneeze violently.  
John was still cuddled up against Sherlock, and the first thing he noticed was that the other man wasn't cold at all anymore; rather he seemed to be burning up.  
The sneeze tickled Sherlock's throat and set off a fit of coughing that just wouldn't stop.  
John turned on his back to give Sherlock more room and to look at him. "Are you okay?" he frowned.  
"I'm fine," Sherlock answered between coughs. Finally he got them under control and sat up. Then he groaned. His head felt like it was about to split down the middle.  
"You don't look fine," John said, giving him his don't-try-to-fool-me look.  
Sherlock staggered to his feet. "I just need a shower and some tea."  
John nodded. "I'll put the kettle on," he said, looking at Sherlock with hesitation. "Don't faint in the shower. If you're not in the kitchen in 10 minutes I'm coming to find you."  
Sherlock muttered something that might have been "is that a promise?" as he shuffled off to the bathroom.  
John decided - mostly for his own mental sanity - that he had misunderstood Sherlock and stretched. As he opened the bedroom door to go to the kitchen, the smell hit him and he groaned.  
The hot water over his aching body was so nice. Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed to himself. At the back of his mind something was nagging, but he didn't want to know what it was, so he let his head fill with soothing music, a new melody he was composing.  
When the tea was ready, John looked at his watch. He had been serious that we would go get Sherlock in the bathroom if it took him too long. Who knew in what state the idiot actually was.  
Feeling much better, Sherlock turned off the water and went to dry himself off. His nose was stuffy and his throat a little sore. He looked around for his robe, then realized he had left it in the bedroom.  
"Sherlock?" John asked from the other side of the door. "Everything okay?"  
"Sure," Sherlock answered, and then added, a little embarrassed: "Could you get me my robe? And maybe some underwear?"  
"Oh. Yeah. Of course. Just a moment." John tried very hard not to think at all, while he went to get the clothes.  
Sherlock wrapped a towel around his waist. While he waited for John to return, he studied himself in the mirror. That nagging thing was back. Something about last night. He pushed it away and reached for his toothbrush.  
John walked in, taking in the sight of Sherlock's naked back as he was standing by the sink brushing his teeth. Realizing that he was staring, he quickly looked away. "I'll put your things here, alright? I'm in the kitchen, just come when you're ready, tea's getting cold." He quickly left the bathroom again, suppressing the urge to run a hand over Sherlock's back.  
John seemed tense, Sherlock thought. Was he still upset about the experiment? The smell hadn't seemed so bad this morning, but then again, Sherlock's sense of smell was probably compromised at the moment. He put on the clothes John had brought and went to join him.  
"Your tea," John said as the other man came in, unnecessarily shoving the cup to Sherlock's side of the small table. "I'll make breakfast in a minute. Anything you'd like?"  
Sherlock sniffed, trying to determine how bad the smell really was. Considering how much he could still pick up, it must be pretty bad for John's unclogged nose. "How about I take you out for breakfast instead?"  
John gave him an incredulous look. "That would mean that you'd have to get dressed," he pointed out.  
Sherlock looked down at himself and chuckled. "Give me five minutes."  
"Really? You are getting dressed because otherwise I would sit in the smell for breakfast? You must have meant what you said last night."  
"Meant what?" Sherlock asked absentmindedly as he went to his room to get dressed. "That I was sorry?"  
John smirked and sipped his tea. "Are you?"  
"Of course I am. It was a stupid accident, but I should have been more careful," Sherlock replied from his room, his voice a bit muffled as he searched through his wardrobe.  
"Well, you're forgiven if you buy me breakfast." John smiled as he walked past the bedroom door to go upstairs for his own clothes. It was a little impractical that they were still in his own wardrobe, he thought as he climbed the stairs. In the high probability that he kept sleeping in Sherlock's room, he should bring some of them down.  
When Sherlock was dressed, he went to finish his tea while waiting for John. It was almost completely cold but still did him some good. His head was still a bit fuzzy though. He thought back to the previous night. The fight, the fear that John had gone, the very near disaster in the park and then the relief at finding John home. He remembered falling asleep in the chair, and then had a very vague recollection of John helping him get to bed. And something more. Had John called him an idiot? He chuckled fondly.  
"Ready?" John asked as he came downstairs. "Are you sure you don't need a painkiller or something? You really look pale."  
"I'm fine," Sherlock answered, as he got up and walked to John. He wrapped his arms around him and rested his head on his shoulder, humming with delight. "I just need some fresh air."  
"Well, it's your own fault!" John hugged him tighter and kissed his hair.  
Sherlock wanted to kiss John, but didn't think it would be such a good idea, if he really was coming down with something. So instead he nuzzled his neck for a while before pulling back with a smile. "Okay, I'm buying, but you choose the place."  
"Come on then." John smiled up at him and took his hand.  
Sherlock followed John, enjoying the feeling of their joined hands. As they walked down Baker Street, he felt a silly grin spread across his face.

"So," John said when they were sitting in a small tea house and had ordered breakfast. "Where did you go yesterday?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "I just sort of wandered around." It had been bad, but he had not given in. He really didn't want to dwell on it any more.  
John looked at him. "Why?"  
Sherlock sighed a little. This was such a pleasant morning, couldn't they just forget about last night? "I was feeling kind of bad... about us arguing."  
"I was never really going to leave, you know," John said, searching Sherlock's face for... something. He didn't know what.  
Sherlock blushed slightly and wouldn't meet his eyes. "I knew that," he mumbled.  
John fell silent, but with a gentle smile he gave Sherlock's hand a small squeeze on the table, before he pulled back to make place for the arrival of their food.  
Sherlock still couldn't bring himself to look at John while he picked at his food. Of course John hadn't meant it. But he had panicked. Again. This really wasn't like him. Why was he being so irrational when it came to John?  
John quietly finished his breakfast and drank his tea, looking at Sherlock.  
In the end, Sherlock only managed to eat a few bites. He was starting to feel drowsy and his body was aching again. His throat tickled and started him coughing.  
"We really should get you to bed again," John said in full doctor mode. He asked for the bill and paid it himself, because Sherlock just had another coughing fit as it arrived.  
Sherlock tried to protest that he wanted to pay, but he couldn't catch his breath. Instead he hauled himself to his feet, groaning a bit at his aching joints.  
"Come on. You can lean on me if you need to," John said, hurrying to Sherlock's side.  
Gratefully Sherlock put his arm around John's shoulders, trying not to put too much weight on him.  
John laid his arm around Sherlock's waist to have a better hold on him and they crossed the few cold streets to Baker Street.  
Back in the flat, Sherlock collapsed on the sofa. He looked at John pleadingly and asked: "Tea?"  
"Already on my way," John said. He handed Sherlock some pills to keep the fever down as he brought him his tea. "You should sleep."  
Sherlock swallowed the pills and sipped the hot tea carefully. "I'll try," he promised and shivered.  
"Do you want to go to bed or shall I just get you a blanket?" John asked.  
"Blanket's fine. I'd like to stay here, if it's okay with you."  
"Sure. I'll be right here in my chair with a book, in case you need anything."  
Sherlock lay still for a long time. Then he chuckled. "John?" He said. "I'm bored..."  
"The correct phrase is "I want a hug," John mumbled, once again not looking up from his novel.  
Sherlock smiled. "John, can I have a hug, please?"  
John's face showed a small smirk as he read the last sentence, before he closed his book and walked to the sofa. "Yes."  
Sherlock reached out, wrapped his arms around John and pulled him down on top of him.  
"Wait a second." John muddled a bit so he was lying under the blanket as well, instead of on top of it. "There, now you have your second blanket," he said fondly, snuggling into Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock kissed John on the forehead. "Thank you." Then he sighed. "I hate being ill."  
"It makes you polite though," John smiled, brushing his lips against the soft skin of Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock huffed. "Just one more thing to hate about it..." He ran his hand through John's hair. "I would really like to kiss you..."  
John looked up at him. "Then kiss me?"  
Sherlock pouted. "I shouldn't. I don't want you to catch whatever I've got."  
John rolled his eyes. "I've slept next to you, held your hand and now I'm lying on top of you. A kiss really isn't going to make any difference," he said before closing the distance between their lips.  
"Well, you're the doctor," Sherlock mumbled as he returned the kiss.  
It was tender and slow, and John tangled his hands in Sherlock's hair, lightly massaging the other man's scalp.  
Sherlock sighed with pleasure, his arms still around John, holding him close. John kept sucking on Sherlock's bottom lip for a while before he pulled back. "Who would have thought that you could be so gentle at this," he smiled.  
"Sometimes I surprise even myself," Sherlock replied, before catching John's mouth again.  
John hummed into the kiss, his fingers playing with Sherlock's hair.  
Sherlock's fingers tugged gently on the back of John's shirt, loosening it so that he could slide his hands in and touch the warm skin beneath.  
John hissed. "Your fingers are made of ice!"  
"I know," Sherlock laughed apologetically. "That's why I'm trying to get them warm."  
"Ugh. So now I'm your hot-water bottle as well as your blanket. I'm so delighted," John said sarcastically.  
Sherlock nodded and grinned. "I'm only using you for your body heat and general cuddliness. Didn't you know? Now shut up and cuddle me." He pressed his face into John's shoulder trying to suppress a giggle.  
"Silly man," John smiled, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder again. "Do you know that you actually said that you love me, yesterday?" He was half curious and half expecting that Sherlock wouldn't remember, but it was still nice to tease him.  
Sherlock was startled. "I did what? When?"  
"Last night," John answered, feigning calm, as if it had been the most normal thing in the world. "When you were falling asleep and I called you an idiot. Which you are, by the way." He smiled against the detective's neck.  
"I'm an idiot for saying that I love you?" Sherlock looked puzzled.  
"No, it was your answer to me saying that you were an idiot. Perhaps you are an idiot for loving me, but I don't mind, because, well: I hope you meant it."  
Sherlock sensed an unasked request for confirmation. But he didn't know how to respond. He didn't remember saying it. He didn't know if he had meant it. Trying to buy himself time to think, he started kissing John's neck.  
John sighed, thinking he was a fool for expecting a direct confirmation.  
Sherlock could sense that his attempt at deflecting wasn't working. He echoed John's sigh and let his chin rest on the top of John's head, avoiding having to look him in the eyes. So this was it. A few careless words, muttered on the brink of sleep. Was that all it took? Would they lose this thing now? Whatever it was that they had had. He bit his lip.  
John snuggled even closer to Sherlock, telling himself that it didn't matter much. They were them and it was certain that they had a strong bond. It didn't matter what words where uttered about that. And yet, he could imagine how honoured he would feel if Sherlock told him that he really loved him, however ridiculous that was.  
Lost in worried thoughts, fever taking its toll, Sherlock slowly drifted off to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had done it again. He had had a good thing, and somehow he had managed to mess it up. And this time it was even worse. Not only might he lose John, but he had no idea how it had happened. That is, he did know what had happened, but not why. He didn't even remember it. For some reason he had told John that he loved him, and now John was expecting something of him. Something he didn't know how to give. He supposed that he must love him, otherwise, why would he have said it, even in a state of mingled relief and exhaustion? But he wasn't even sure what loving John meant.  
He had been ill for two days now and had found himself avoiding John, not because he didn't want to be close to him - his body was aching not just with fever, but with the desire to touch, to feel – but he was afraid that he had hurt John, and that somehow, not knowing what he was doing, he might make it even worse. He had slept in one of the chairs, to avoid the issue of them sleeping together, like they used to. It had been two horrible nights, restless and filled with unsettling dreams.  
John looked up as Sherlock let out another sigh and put down the book he had almost finished. "Mrs. Hudson asked me what has gotten into you, earlier. She said you were scowling even worse than ever when she got here to bring biscuits, while I had gone to the shop. And I'm starting to wonder as well. You don't even beg for hugs anymore." He looked at Sherlock with his eyebrows pulled up. "You do realize that you can actually talk to people about what is bothering you, right? Instead of sitting there sighing like an old steam train?"  
Sherlock pulled his blanket tighter around his body. "I'm just sick of feeling like this," he answered, and then hurriedly added: "Of being ill."  
"Probably you'll feel better tomorrow. Is there anything you need?"  
"Sleep," Sherlock muttered, half hoping that John wouldn't hear him.  
"Then sleep. Go to bed for a change." He sounded more bitter than he had intended.  
Sherlock couldn't help himself. For the first time in days, he looked directly at John, hearing the confirmation of his worst fears in the other man's voice.  
"What are you looking at? Bedroom." John pointed at the door. "I won't join you if it bothers you," he added more quietly.  
"Yes," Sherlock muttered as he got to his feet and shuffled to the bedroom, shoulders slumped. He was not going to get any sleep anyway, he knew. But at least John wouldn't have to look at him.  
"Is... is that a 'yes it bothers me if you join me' or just 'yes I will go to sleep'? Only checking." John didn't quite manage to keep the hurt feeling out of his voice.  
For a moment Sherlock considered escaping the question behind his closed door, but then he decided he was being a coward. He turned to face John. "Yes I'll go away," he answered.  
John frowned, confused. "That wasn't the question. I don't want you away, you just need sleep. But it's alright if you feel more comfortable on your own in the bed, it's yours after all."  
"What about you?" Sherlock asked. "What will make you comfortable?" He couldn't find the right words to ask what he really wanted. His brain had been working itself to exhaustion over this for the last two days, and he was finding it hard to think straight. He just couldn't bear the thought of locking himself up alone in his room. Last time he had done that, John had left.  
"Ah. Glad you ask. I've missed you the two past nights." John pressed his lips together for a moment, determined not to be ashamed of those words. "So unless you intend to protest, I'm coming with you."  
Sherlock stared at him in shock. "But I thought..." Once again, his mind fumbled for the words.  
"Apparently you're not as good at thinking as you think you are," John said, pressing a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips as he walked past him, indicating with a nod that Sherlock should follow him into the bedroom.  
Bewildered, Sherlock followed, his lips tingling, his body yearning for the closeness he had been denying it.  
Without bothering to get undressed, John lay down on the bed and pulled Sherlock on top of him, immediately catching his lips for a long kiss before he pushed the curly head down on his chest. "Sleep," he ordered, smiling.  
His mind struggled, but his body insisted, and with a desperate sigh, Sherlock obeyed.  
John just happily lay there, one hand softly stroking Sherlock's back while the other played with his hair, until his eyelids grew heavy and he fell asleep as well.  
...  
When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he felt safe, warm and happy. His mind let him enjoy it for almost a minute, before reminding him why he had been so miserable these past days. His body tensed, but the warmth of John against him, the weight of his arm around him, made it impossible to feel anything but content.  
He listened to John breathing, and when he was sure the other man was still asleep he whispered, so softly it was barely more than an articulated breath: "I think I do love you. But I'm not sure I know what that means. I need time. I want this, want you. But not if it means hurting you. Until I can be sure that won't happen, I need to leave you alone. Forgive me."  
As carefully as possible he slipped out of the bed and grabbed some clothes. Hopefully he'd be far away by the time John woke up. The note would not explain, but it might keep John from worrying too much. He switched the sim-card in his phone, and as he walked down the stairs, swallowed his pride and called Mycroft.  
John woke up much later, still warm, and the sheets smelled of Sherlock. He stretched with a groan and rubbed his eyes. Sherlock was gone, but he expected that the other man had woken up and got bored, so he walked to the kitchen, where the note was lying. Sleepily squinting at it for a moment, he read 'I'll be gone for a while. No need to worry.' in Sherlock's scrawl. Very helpful, he thought. He sent a text with simply 'Where?' in it, and went for a shower and clean clothes.  
Meanwhile, in another part of town, Sherlock, reluctantly got into the car with Anthea. "Your brother was so pleased to hear from you," she informed him not looking up from her Blackberry.  
John picked up his phone while he was towelling his hair and frowned at it. The text had been returned with a 'failed delivery' notification. He sent the text again, but the same happened. Trying to call wasn't any use either. "Where has he got to now," he mumbled to himself, pouring his tea.  
Arriving at his brother's estate, Sherlock made his way to the suite reserved for him, but so rarely used. As he climbed the stairs, Mycroft entered the hall, and watched him with a mingled look of concern and sadness.  
...  
"Hi Greg, it's John."  
"No, I don't have any cases for Sherlock. Tell him to keep himself occupied with something else. It's so bad that I'm almost getting bored myself these days, were it not for all the paperwork."  
"Ah, that wasn't what I was going to ask. Sherlock has gone somewhere, I have no idea where, but I take it you don't know either then."  
"No. He gets lost a lot these days, it seems. Have you talked to Mycroft?"  
"No, you know. It's Mycroft, he's probably busy, and I don't feel too keen on contacting him anyway."  
"I think you should, though. He'd like to know if his brother is doing something stupid again."  
"I'm not even sure he is. He might be out for a walk for all I know. It's just that something seemed off these last days. More than normally I mean."  
"Call Mycroft. Pub tonight?"  
"Yeah, I'll come. See you."  
John put down the phone and sighed. He knew Lestrade was right, but he wasn't looking forward to it as he took his phone and called Mycroft.  
Mycroft answered his phone on the second ring, expecting the call. Calmly he explained that Sherlock was taking care of some business for him abroad, and would be out of touch for at least a couple of days for 'security reasons'. "He told me to tell you it was not in the least dangerous and you would have found it very boring."  
After hanging up, he made his way up to Sherlock's rooms. It was time for a brotherly talk.  
And you would have found it very boring. Bloody hell! Sherlock should know by now that he preferred to be at his side anyway. But then, since he had told him, jokingly, about Sherlock's little slip of the tongue, things hadn't been quite the same. John hadn't really thought of it anymore at first, but when Sherlock was so sulky for days, it had crossed his mind again and again. He sighed and prepared for a few boring, quiet days. At least he knew Mycroft would keep an eye on his little brother.  
It took Mycroft the better part of two days to get the whole story out of his brother and then another two, to convince him that he was being an idiot. Finally, he put him in the car, sending him home to Baker Street, and then sent John a text, letting him know his 'flatmate' was coming home. He sincerely hoped the two would keep each other busy for a while, letting him get back to running the country.  
John had had a nice night out with Lestrade, even though most the detective inspector could talk about was the stress of his divorce. He had started the next day enjoying the silent calm in the flat, a bit hung-over, but soon he was bored and wondered what kind of case Sherlock was on. He decided to take advantage of the situation to clean up the still smelling flat, hoping that the cleaning products would get rid of the stinking acid, and indeed it was a little bit better when he was finished on the next day. Mrs. Hudson had come in to announce that she had made far too many biscuits to eat on her own, so another afternoon was filled. The next day, though, there just was nothing left to do, and John hoped that Sherlock wouldn't stay away for long. The flat was hatefully quiet and out of pure boredom John went for a shower, missing the text Mycroft had sent him.  
Sherlock was not sure what he would do when he got home. But Mycroft had been very insistent that running away was not an acceptable solution to his current conundrum. His brother had told him, in no uncertain terms, to stop being such a fool and just talk to John about how he felt.  
Sherlock knew that it was the right thing to do. It was logical. So why did it terrify him so much?  
At first he had been afraid that John might be mistaken in believing that Sherlock loved him. That he would be letting John down. But the days spent at Mycroft's had made him realize that he did indeed love his friend. He had thought about him constantly and missed him. He had read about the emotion other people called 'love' and had in the end conceded the point that this was how he felt about John: he loved him.  
So why was he still so worried? And then, as he slowly opened the door to their flat, it hit him: what if John didn't love him?  
When he came out of the shower, John didn't bother to put on a bathing robe, since there was no-one there anyway. He just draped a towel across his neck to catch the drops from his hair and left the bathroom to fetch fresh clothes in his bedroom. The shower had done him good and he was carelessly humming, until he suddenly saw a movement in the corner of his eyes. He quickly lowered the small towel to his hips as he turned around with a jolt. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! You scared me to death. Why didn't you let me know that you were coming home?"  
Sherlock just stood there, mouth slightly open, cheeks flaming red. It took a moment for John's question to register. "I... um... Mycroft said he would..." He finished lamely. Then he hesitantly took a step forward, letting his eyes fully appreciate the sight before him.  
"Yes. Well. Good to have you back. I'll make tea in a minute, just let me go and get dressed." John wondered whether it was his imagination, or Sherlock really was staring. And blushing. And looking adorable doing so.  
Sherlock smiled shyly. "Can I get a hug first?"  
John smiled back and rearranged his towel so he could keep it up with one hand. "Of course." He put a few steps forward to give Sherlock a one-armed hug and kissed his cheek. "Missed me, then?" he teased.  
"Very much," Sherlock replied, as he wrapped his arms around John, and bent down to kiss his neck.  
"You even admit it," John smiled, a bit surprised, but happy to snuggle further into Sherlock. "I'm also glad you're back."  
Sherlock put his hands on John's cheeks, and kissed him. The kiss was long and slow, filled with all the longing of the days spent apart.  
John breathlessly kissed him back. Had their kisses always been this intense? Had he forgotten about that because it had been a few days?, he wondered.  
Sherlock hoped the kiss would ask the question he couldn't put into words. Desperately, he embraced John, pulling him as close as possible.  
John buried his face against Sherlock's collar bone, catching his breath. He felt vulnerable, naked except for a small towel while Sherlock was still wearing - was wearing, he corrected himself - several layers of clothes, but there was nowhere he would rather be. I love you, he thought, but he said nothing because he didn't want to alarm his flatmate.  
Surely John must feel the same, Sherlock thought. How else could it feel this right? He fought his fear, and spoke. "John?"  
"Yes?" he answered, the fabric of Sherlock's suit jacket brushing his lips.  
"I... " why was this so hard? "I think I meant it."  
John frowned. "Meant what? That you missed me?" He stepped a little bit back so he could look at Sherlock's face.  
Sherlock sighed, exasperated. John wasn't making this any easier. "No, well yes, I did miss you... But I was talking about the other thing..."  
John stared at him, questioningly. "You do realize that we haven't talked to each other for 4 days, right? What on earth are you talking abou- ooh." Suddenly it had crossed his mind, and his mouth formed a perfectly round 'o' for a little longer than he made the sound. "Are you- are you actually saying that you love me? Sherlock?" His heart was hammering in his chest as he looked up at the other man.  
Sherlock bit his lip and nodded.  
John smiled widely. "Good. I love you too." He pressed another kiss on Sherlock's lips and the smile didn't leave him; he was beaming.  
Sherlock whimpered in relief as he clung to John.  
"You've probably known for ages that I love you," John said. "It must have been obvious to you before it even was to me."  
Sherlock chuckled and shook his head. "I had no idea. Must be a blind spot."  
John smiled. "Well. It's good to have it confirmed that you love me too, even though I already thought you did. I'll, um, get dressed then." He suddenly remembered to pull the towel up a bit so it was once again covering the bits it was supposed to cover.  
Sherlock grinned mischievously. "If you must."  
"Well, at least for a while," John smirked. "Probably you haven't even had lunch yet and I'm not going to cook naked. We'll see about afterwards." He bit his lip and turned around to go upstairs, hoping that he hadn't alarmed Sherlock by saying what he was thinking.  
Sherlock laughed happily and flopped down in his chair. Mycroft had, for once, been right. Telling John had been a great idea.


	7. Chapter 7

John quickly returned downstairs, wearing jeans and his softest beige jumper. He put on the kettle and started to make preparations for spaghetti. "So, how was the case?" he asked as he poured the tea.  
Sherlock felt bad about having lied to John, but he couldn't bring himself to admit how moronic he had handled himself, these past days. He shrugged as he answered: "Very boring."  
"What had happened? Mycroft told me about something abroad, but as usual he didn't give any details."  
Why wouldn't John let this go? Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "It was... personal," he answered. This was, strictly speaking, not a lie, but vague enough that John would, hopefully, misunderstand and respect Mycroft's privacy.  
"Oh. Alright." Perhaps Mycroft just hadn't allowed Sherlock to bring John along, then. John liked that idea. For a while he worked on the food in silence, then he put two steaming plates on the table.  
For once Sherlock actually had an appetite. He smiled at John: "This is really good."  
"Thank you," John smirked. He laid a foot on one of Sherlock's without looking up from his food.  
Sherlock smiled and gently stroked John's ankle with his other foot.  
"By the way, are you feeling better? You were still sick when you left," John said.  
"I'm fine. It was just a cold I think." He chuckled. "According to Mycroft, I always turn into a baby when I'm ill."  
"Not just when you're ill, you're always a sulky little child," John grinned.  
"Thank you very much." Sherlock pouted and playfully kicked John under the table.  
"You're just proving my point!" John smiled radiantly.  
Sherlock returned the smile. "But you still love me."  
"Yes, you'd wonder why," John sighed, grinning. "Come on, you'll help doing the washing-up for once."  
Sherlock almost looked offended.  
"Washing-up means you can cuddle me while you're waiting to dry the dishes, as long as you keep my hands free," John clarified.  
Sherlock supposed he could live with that. In fact he ended up doing a lot more cuddling than drying. A little tickling too, and quite a lot of kissing every part of John he could get at without actually getting in the way.  
John hummed happily. As he put the last plate away, Sherlock following like a tall, cuddly backpack, he tilted his head backwards against Sherlock's shoulder and kissed his jaw. Sherlock spun John around so they were facing each other, pushed him gently against the counter and kissed him hungrily. John kissed back, just as greedy, both hands gently stroking the sides of Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock sighed against John's lips. "I love you," he whispered without breaking the kiss.  
John kept kissing him, gradually slower and more tender rather than hungry. Eventually he pulled back and looked into Sherlock's eyes. "I love you too."  
Sherlock beamed at him. And then his face turned into a puzzled frown. "Have you ever loved anyone? Like this? Before?"  
John had to think for a few moments. "I... Actually, no, I don't think so. I've had girlfriends I really, really liked, but not... There never was a bond like we have." He looked a bit confused at the realization himself.  
"Oh," Sherlock thought about this for a moment, then he smiled, suddenly looking incredibly shy.  
John looked up at him and smiled. "You look adorable when you're this uncertain about something. You're always so smug, but this just really is a new area for you, huh?" He ghosted his lips over Sherlock's.  
Sherlock nodded. "I have no clue what I'm doing," he admitted.  
"It's a nice change," John smirked. He entwined his fingers with Sherlock's.  
"So," Sherlock looked at their hands. "What happens now?"  
"Um. What do you want?" John asked.  
"I don't know," Sherlock thought for a while. "You?"  
"We could go to bed," John said, keeping his eyes on their joined hands.  
"Hmmmm," Sherlock smiled. "That sounds nice."  
"And we could also be naked, and nothing has to happen, but I'd just like to... feel your skin," John added quickly, blushing.  
Sherlock just looked at him for a very long time. Then he nodded. "I'd like that too."  
"Okay," John said, taking a deep breath in relief. He cleared his throat and pulled Sherlock along to the bedroom.  
As Sherlock followed, he felt lightheaded and giddy. And just a little scared. This was wonderful, but it was happening very fast. When did they change from being friends to... to this?  
John closed the door behind them and let go of Sherlock's hand. "Just, um," he said, feeling a bit awkward. It had seemed a more natural step in his head than it did now, with Sherlock looking at him. It felt as if he was asking too much at once. "We don't have to be naked immediately. We can just, we can just cuddle like always and we'll see."  
Sherlock looked at him. "How about we just take it a bit slow?" He raised his hands and began unbuttoning his shirt.  
"Yes. Yes, that's fine." He licked his lips and followed Sherlock's hands with his eyes, before he remembered that he was supposed to undress as well, not wanting to make Sherlock feel uncomfortable being the only one half naked, and he pulled his jumper over his head.  
When Sherlock's shirt was open, he let it slide off his shoulders and then reached out and pulled John close, gasping at the sensation of their naked chests pressed against each other. He bent down and kissed John.  
"Yes, this, that's what I meant," John whispered against Sherlock's mouth before deepening the kiss. He let his hands wander over Sherlock's back, taking in the softness of the skin against his fingertips. Sherlock hummed in delight and followed John's example, letting his hands explore.  
After a while John just kept his face close to Sherlock's so they were breathing the same air and he stroked the taller man's shoulders and arms. "You are beautiful," he said quietly.  
"Thank you," Sherlock whispered, his arms wrapped around John. "So are you."  
John smiled. "I'm not, really. But you look so perfect." His eyes kept roaming over Sherlock, admiring. "I never even thought men could be attractive to me and then there's you."  
Sherlock blushed, feeling a little exposed under John's close scrutiny. He supposed this was how people felt when he was 'reading' them.  
John realized that he was staring for too long and pressed a line of kisses over Sherlock's right collar bone. Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted back his head. This was an incredible feeling. Being so close to John, seeing and feeling so much of him.  
John moved on to Sherlock's neck, gently licking and nibbling.  
Sherlock shivered. "John," he moaned. "That's... wonderful."  
John smiled against his skin and continued what he was doing, while one hand was stroking the back of Sherlock's neck and the other was playing with his shoulder-blade. Sherlock bent down and nudged John's head away, so he could get at his neck. He kissed his way down from behind John's ear to his collarbone and then along the shoulder. John hummed and gave Sherlock more room, his head resting against the other man's shoulder.  
Sherlock was enjoying himself surprisingly much, as he started working his way down John's chest. When he reached a nipple he experimentally flicked it with his tongue before kissing it.  
"Sherlock." It was supposed to be a warning, but it came out more like an encouragement and John moaned as Sherlock paid more attention to his nipple, awakening erectile tissue on more than one spot on John's body.  
Sherlock chuckled at John's response. He was definitely enjoying this.  
"Sherlock, stop." He gently pushed the detective's head away from his chest, his heart beating far too fast. "Give me a second to breathe." He held Sherlock's hands, not wanting to break contact completely.  
Sherlock looked at him, puzzled. "Not good?"  
John laughed. "Too good." He reached up to kiss Sherlock.  
Sherlock leaned into the kiss, holding John against him again, trying to get as much contact between their bodies as possible. John lowered his hands to Sherlock's waist, softly stroking his sides there.  
Sherlock gently pushed John towards the bed with a small twitch of his eyebrows, as if asking 'okay?'. John gave a small nod and pulled Sherlock on top of him.  
Sherlock raised himself up on his arms, and took a long time to study John lying beneath him. "You are beautiful" he said before lowering himself down to kiss him again.  
"You almost sound surprised," John grinned, before allowing himself to be carried away in the kiss.  
"I am surprised," Sherlock answered. "Every time I look at you, I am surprised."  
John grinned. "What's so surprising about me, then? The grade of idiocy?"  
"No," Sherlock laughed. "Though right now, you are being kind of an idiot. I am surprised at how wonderful and beautiful and absolutely perfect you are." Sherlock blushed at his own words, not sure how John would take it.  
John giggled. "Sentimental after all." He kissed Sherlock's cheek and smiled up at him.  
"I'll give you sentimental," Sherlock growled threateningly. Then he grinned wickedly, and started tickling John mercilessly with one hand, while holding him down with the other.  
"That's not fair!" John laughed, squirming. He decided to distract the other by kissing him, giggling into his mouth.  
It was very hard to tickle and kiss at the same time, so Sherlock gave up. Kissing was by far the most preferable of the two. John smirked at his victory and placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck to keep him in place.  
Sherlock took hold of John's shoulder and pulled him along as he rolled on to his side, not breaking the kiss. He then moved his hand slowly down John's back enjoying every inch of smooth skin beneath his fingers. John kept kissing him and shifted a little closer, playing with Sherlock's hair on the back of his head. When Sherlock's hand reached the edge of John's trousers, it stopped for a moment, then started moving along it round to settle on John's hip, the tip of a single finger snaking inside, caressing.  
John softly kissed Sherlock's bottom lip. "You can get them off if you want to," he mumbled against it.  
Sherlock pulled his head back and looked at John. He considered before answering. "I'm not sure..." He hesitated, afraid of hurting John's feelings. "Maybe," he continued, "this is enough... for now?"  
"That's fine," John said, smiling reassuringly and nuzzling Sherlock's cheek. "I was just saying that you were allowed to." He snuggled into Sherlock's chest and closed his eyes, contentedly.


	8. Chapter 8

"John! John!" Sherlock called from the living room, as he was rushing about getting his things together. He popped his head into the bedroom. "John! Get up! We've got a case!" And then he was gone again.  
John groaned. "Why are you already up anyway?" he mumbled sleepily. He turned around, but thought better of it before he could let his head fall back down on the pillow, and hoisted himself out of the bed to find his clothes.  
Sherlock looked back in, his eyes sparkling. "Hurry up John. This is a good one. I'll get us a cab. Meet me outside in two minutes." He rushed off, wrapping his scarf around his neck.  
"Yes, yes, coming," John called after him, feeling a bit grumpy because that meant that there wasn't even time for tea. He hurried down the stairs to join Sherlock.  
Sherlock was almost bouncing up and down as he waved at the cabs going by. Finally one stopped, and as John came out the door at the same time, he grabbed his arm and hauled him into the backseat. He gave the address and then looked eagerly out the window as if already searching for clues.  
John looked at Sherlock. "Um, good morning. What happened?"  
"Lestrade called." Sherlock grinned happily. "Triple kidnapping. Time is an issue, so they're bringing me in right from the start. This is great."  
John smiled and shook his head. "Well, it probably was about time you got a case again to keep you from being bored."  
"I know." Sherlock reached out, took John's hand and squeezed it. "I really needed this."  
John smiled down at their hands and stroked his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand.  
The cab took them to a rather glum residential area, out in Mile End. A reluctant Donovan was waiting to take them up to the flat on the fourth floor. Sherlock smiled sarcastically at her, as she hissed: "The freak and his pet are here," into her radio.  
John's jaw clenched as usual when she called Sherlock a freak, but they ignored her and walked into the flat.  
"So," Sherlock exclaimed, as soon as he saw Lestrade. "What have you got for me?" He listened eagerly as the situation was explained: a woman and her two young children, girl 6 years old, boy 7 years old, had apparently been kidnapped from the flat the night before. There were some signs of a struggle and the door being forced open, and a kind of ransom note had been found.  
"What does the note say, exactly?" John asked.  
Lestrade picked it up from the table, already sealed in a plastic bag. He was about to hand it to John, when Sherlock snatched it out of his hand and started studying it intently.  
John's gaze followed the quick movement of the note and he sighed, but of course that was only to be expected. "What do you make of it?" he asked Sherlock.  
Sherlock started pacing the small kitchen as he rattled off his observations: "Cheap paper, ballpoint pen - old, written with the left hand, though the person writing it is right handed, poor spelling, probably someone with little or no education." He looked up at Lestrade. "And no ransom demand...?"  
"Then why would they write?" John asked, confused.  
Having learned all he could from it at this point, Sherlock thrust the note at John before stalking off to examine the living room. The note was brief, stating that the woman and kids would not be harmed if the 'demans' were met. The kidnappers would 'be in tuch'.  
John frowned at the note for a moment before he followed Sherlock. He had always liked to watch him when he was like this, flying around through a room and completely focused.  
Sherlock was absorbed in examining the sitting room and hadn't noticed Anderson in the door to the bedroom before he snickered at the sight of John. Sherlock's head jerked up and he stared at him. "What?" he demanded. Anderson just shrugged, looking falsely innocent. His eyes darted between John and Sherlock, then he smirked as he turned around and left.  
John frowned, wondering what Anderson had to snicker about now. How on earth was Sherlock the freak, when he was the one busy solving the case while Anderson was walking around laughing at them?  
Sherlock shrugged. Anderson had always been an idiot. No reason to expect him to act like anything else. He crouched down to examine the tea stains on the floor, where a small table and its contents had been knocked over. He thought he heard whispers from the bedroom. "Anderson, shut up!" he yelled. "You're wasting sound waves."  
John hid a small smile and looked around in the room. It was decorated nicely and should have had a cosy atmosphere, but something was off. It was as if there was a chilliness coming off the walls, as if it was a house that was perfectly decorated, but really no-one's home. He wondered if Sherlock felt it too, but didn't ask so he wouldn't disturb his thought process.  
Sherlock immersed himself in the scene for a while. When he was satisfied that he had overlooked nothing, he went to shoo Anderson and his assistants from the bedroom.  
"So, he's home again?" Lestrade asked John. They hadn't talked since their night out, now a week ago.  
John nodded. "Yeah. He has been out of the country for some case for Mycroft."  
"For Mycroft? He didn't tell me anything about a case abroad," Lestrade said, puzzled.  
John quirked his eyebrow. "Mycroft never tells anything to anyone. Top secret spy stuff, remember?"  
"Yes, of course."  
It very much looked like Lestrade was blushing, but John decided to let it go for now. "Sherlock? Anything you can share with us yet?"  
Sherlock didn't even look up as he answered. "It definitely looks like there's been a fight, but something is not quite right. There were four people here, two children, two adults, one male, one female. Someone fell to the floor over there," he pointed. "Probably the woman. At some point the children hid under the bed. The girl was dragged out by the hands, the boy crawled out." He muttered something and got down on the floor lying flat on his stomach, so he could look under the bed.  
"Anything about where they could have gone?" Lestrade asked.  
Sherlock shook his head. "Not before I've done some analysis on those particles in the rug that Anderson is almost stepping in."  
Anderson jumped aside, earning a reproving glare from Lestrade.  
"I’ll need samples. Could you get them for me, please?" As he looked at John, there was a pronounced snicker from the door where Donovan had just appeared. Sherlock snapped his head around to glare at her. "What?" She just covered her grin with a hand and looked at Anderson before leaving the room. Sherlock followed her gaze, just in time to see the man turn away to hide the smirk on his face. What was going on? Sherlock turned to John, a bewildered look in his eyes.  
John shrugged. "I'll get you the samples." He plucked a small flask from the inside pocket of Sherlock's coat (which the detective was of course wearing) and tweezers from his own pocket, both without thinking anything about it and just as the most efficient way to get the requisites.  
As John worked, Sherlock kept his eyes on Anderson's shaking back. Was the man giggling? Had he finally lost it completely? He had always been an idiot, but this was a whole new level, even for him. It was quite unsettling, and Sherlock needed to get away. He put his hand on John's shoulder. "Meet me at St. Barts." And then he swooped out the door and down the stairs.

John nodded and looked at Sherlock's back for a moment too long before he went back to his task.  
"Aww, has your shag just left the building?" Anderson mocked.  
"What?" John looked up, confused and not really listening as he had been focused on plucking the bits Sherlock needed from the rug.  
"Well, you two are very touchy-feely of late, aren't you? Is he also a freak in bed? Does he use you as a pet there too?" Donovan asked.  
"Could we please try to have some professionalism on the scene?" Lestrade said, authoritatively looking from Anderson to Donovan.  
John clenched his jaw and stood up. "I have what we need," he told Lestrade, and he left the building as quickly as possible, without sparing the two others as much as a glance.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock was pacing the lab. There really wasn't much he could do before John brought the samples. He had needed the time and space to think, but now he found he couldn't really concentrate.  
He was fuming. Donovan and Anderson obviously thought they knew something about John and him, and although, this time, there actually was something to know, it was none of their damn business.  
Sherlock loved John and he was very happy with how things were between them at the moment, but he was not going to let it, or especially other people's absurd interest in it, distract him from a case.  
It would be best to let it rest for now. They would have plenty of time to explore this thing (and each other, a small smug voice at the back of his mind supplied, making him smile) when the case was solved. Yes. That would be the logical thing to do. Back when they had just started hugging and touching they had formed the pattern of keeping it between cases. No need to change that now.  
When John entered the lab with the samples, he was still annoyed with the two Yarders. "What can I do?" His voice sounded more clipped than usual.  
Without looking up, Sherlock held out his hand for the samples. He was adjusting the microscope, already anticipating what he would need to examine. "Nothing," he replied, as he prepared the slide.  
John sighed and sat down next to Sherlock, knowing that the detective would give an order anytime, when an idea would strike him. It had never made John feel as a lesser being or a pet. It was just, as he had learned over time, the most efficient way to work with Sherlock. Of course Anderson and Donovan didn't see it that way. "I'm beginning to understand why you think the world is filled with idiots," he muttered.  
Sherlock fiddled for a while, then muttered: "This doesn't make sense." He looked up as the door opened. Seeing Molly he flashed the exaggerated smile he reserved for her and people who could open doors. "Hiiii," he crooned. "So good to see you, Molly."  
John gave him an annoyed look. "Hello, Molly. Don't mind him, full case mode and all that."  
Sherlock got up, still smiling. He cocked his head and studied Molly. "Is that a new necklace? Don't remember ever seeing it before." As Molly giggled and put a hand to the pendant, he moved closer, looking her straight in the eyes. "Molly," he said looking earnest. "I really hate to ask this of you, but I need a body, to test something for a case." Then he looked down at the necklace. He raised his hand and ran a fingertip over the pendant, accidentally brushing the hand she still held there. "It's beautiful," he commented as he looked up again.  
John stood looking angrily at the two of them. "Sherlock, a word," he demanded.  
Sherlock turned to John with a, not completely convincing, look of surprised innocence. "In a moment, John. I really need to talk to Molly."  
"No. Now." He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him along so they were standing further away from Molly.  
"What?" Sherlock hissed.  
"You really should stop doing that. You're hurting Molly's feelings, just using her with that little trick," John said, and then added: "And I don't like it either."  
Sherlock looked puzzled. "I'm not hurting her feelings. Look at her. She's happy to get the attention, and I may just get what I need. What's the problem?"  
"We're... together. Sort of. Anyway, we love each other, whatever you want to call our relationship. When she finds out, she'll know that you don't really like her, not like that. And I don't like to see you flirting with anyone who isn't me." John blushed, but there was still anger in his eyes.  
Sherlock's face fell. "Oh," he muttered. "Didn't quite think of it like that." He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."  
"It's nothing. Just try to think about it?" He gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and nodded to indicate that Sherlock could go back to Molly.  
Sherlock leaned closer and whispered: "If I can't flirt with her, then how am I going to get her to give me access to the dead body of a 6 or 7 year old child?"  
"Just ask her," John shrugged. "She'd do anything for you anyway."  
Sherlock looked at him doubtfully and then shrugged before returning to Molly. Keeping his back to John, so he wouldn't notice what he was doing with his eyes, he asked her again, keeping the flirting as discrete as possible. Molly's giggling wasn't so easy to obscure, as she went off to see what she could do.  
John sighed and shook his head. He knew it was ridiculous, but Sherlock doing this almost made him doubt if the detective needed something from him, when he was as nice to him as he had been lately. Rationally, he knew Sherlock's feelings for him were sincere, and he never doubted him when they were cuddling at home, but standing here, ignored, it made him feel bad.  
Sherlock turned to John, grinning happily that he'd once again gotten what he wanted. Then he frowned. John looked a little tense. He probably wasn't too keen on the whole 'dead child' thing. He really was so sensitive. That was part of why Sherlock loved him.  
Taking advantage of Molly's absence, he hurried to John and placed a quick kiss on his forehead. "Why don't you go home? I have to test some things, but I should be done within a couple of hours."  
John sent him a small smile, but he was still tense. "I'd rather stay with you. I want to help," he said. And I'm being ridiculous because I want to keep an eye on you and Molly, his mind added, reprimanding himself.  
Sherlock really didn't want John present at the tests he would have to perform. He knew how John disliked him being 'insensitive'. He didn't really think he could handle John being disappointed in him right now. "No, it's fine. I can manage on my own. You go ahead. Get some rest, read a book, relax." Sherlock smiled as he ruffled John's hair. "I'll see you tonight."  
John bit his lip. "Are you sure? Is there really nothing I can do?"  
"I'm sure." Checking there was no sound of footsteps approaching, Sherlock bent down to kiss John quickly on the lips. "Now go."  
John hesitated, but didn't want to push it any further. "Alright then." He reached up for another quick kiss. "Text me when you need me."  
Sherlock nodded and then strode off in search of Molly.  
John decided not to take a cab home so he could get some fresh air. Apparently even the non-observant people noticed the change in their relationship and thought that they were regularly having sex, but instead of getting him off, Sherlock was flirting with someone else. Great.  
...  
With John out of the way, Sherlock could focus on his work. And Molly was so eager to help.  
He was testing different ways of pulling the small body out of an enclosed space, cross referencing with the markings he'd seen under the bed. He had been right. None of this made any sense. As Molly wheeled the little girl away, Sherlock settled on the floor, his back against the wall, and emerged himself in his mind palace. He stayed like this till morning, never noticing the passing of time.  
...  
John paced the room, annoyed. He had sent Sherlock five texts, but hadn't got any answers. Calling Molly told him that Sherlock had still been in the morgue when she had left. Fortunately he knew Molly well enough to know that she would really have left and that they weren't there together, but still he was getting angry. Sherlock could at least come home.  
'You should know by know that I hate sleeping alone,' he texted, ramming the buttons of his phone.  
When Sherlock finally came to, the first thing he noticed was the message light flashing on his phone. John. Of course!  
He had promised to be home last night. Sherlock groaned. He hadn't meant to break that promise. The case was just so... complex. John should understand. This was how it was. Sherlock was married to his work. Which made John what? He found his thoughts going round in circles. He checked the phone again. The last text had been hours ago. Surely John must have gone to bed at some point. He couldn't still be waiting. Could he?  
If Sherlock called, he might wake John. So he texted: 'Might have had a breakthrough. Going down to the Yard, to check some facts.' He considered for a while, then added. 'Sorry I didn't contact you earlier. I've been busy.'  
The buzzing of his phone woke John, who had fallen asleep on the sofa a few hours ago in a very uncomfortable angle. Reading the text made him even more annoyed than he had already been. Quickly he went to refresh himself and then took a cab to the Yard, so he would be there first. When Sherlock arrived, he was standing in front of the building with his arms crossed in an impatient posture.  
You didn't have to be a detective to know this was not good. When Sherlock saw John waiting for him, he very nearly turned and walked away. Why now? He did not have time to deal with this. But he was not going to run again. He had told John how he felt. He had shown him. Surely that must be enough. Forcing a smile on his face he walked up to John. "You didn't need to come. Hope I didn't wake you up."  
"Yeah, probably that's the reason why you didn't come home, because you were so thoughtful not to wake me up," John bristled.  
Sherlock almost cringed at John's tone, but he kept his expression calm. "I was working." He made his way past John and through the doors.  
"You could have let me know something, Sherlock," John said, walking quickly behind the other man. "Sending a text is not that much of an effort. And if you were just thinking, you could have come home instead of forgetting that I exist altogether."  
Sherlock was not going to apologize. This was how he worked. John knew that. In fact, it was one of the first things Sherlock had ever told him about himself. So instead of entering into a pointless argument, he just shrugged as he headed for Lestrade's office.  
John sighed. He wasn't finished, but he couldn't make a scene in Scotland Yard - they were already sniggering enough. Frustrated, he followed Sherlock and greeted Lestrade with a stiff nod.  
Sherlock demanded access to all official records on the family, commandeered Lestrade's chair, desk and computer and ordered coffee. This was why he loved kidnappings. The time factor made everyone so much more cooperative, as they stepped back and let him get on with his work. His eyes caught John's and he frowned. Why was he still upset?  
John silently sat down on the edge of Lestrade's desk, in case Sherlock had a task for him. The fact that he hadn't, made him feel useless and even angrier.  
Sherlock soon found what he was looking for. "Has anyone spoken to the father?" he asked.  
Donovan, who happened to be the one closest by, answered irritably. "Of course we have. We're not completely incompetent, you know."' Sherlock barely suppressed a scoff. "It was the first thing we did. His alibi is solid."  
John questioningly looked at Sherlock. "Do you think the father set this up?"  
"Of course not." Sherlock didn't even look at John, but kept his focus on Donovan. "The only thing you could think to ask, was if the man had an alibi?" He dismissed her denial with an impatient wave. "Is there a transcript?" She nodded and was about to speak when he cut her off. "Well, then get it for me!" When she had left, he turned to John. "Could you do something for me?"  
"Yes, of course," John said curtly.  
Sherlock smiled gratefully at him. "I'm going to need to go up north for a couple of days. Could you go home and pack some clothes for me and then bring them here?"  
"Why, yes, but... Are you going alone?" John frowned.  
Sherlock would have loved to travel with John. After all, that was what they usually did. But after everything that had happened, he thought having John around would be too much of a distraction (or temptation). And he really needed to focus on this. Besides, them going together would just fuel even more of that insufferable gossip. "Yes. I think it's best."  
John stared at him, disappointment clear on his face. "Ah. I take it you have something else for me to do then."  
Sherlock realised that John was taking this as a rejection. How could he make him understand? He looked around. This was definitely too public a place to reassure John. He considered his options. "Come on, I'll walk you out and help you get a cab."  
John sighed and hoped that this meant that Sherlock would use their time alone to explain his actual intentions.  
As they made their way out of the building, Sherlock spotted what he needed: an unused small office with no windows. Checking that no one was watching, he grabbed John's wrist and pulled him inside. As soon as the door was closed he pressed his lips to John's, pushing him up against the wall.  
"Sherlock!" John gasped, immediately pulling back out of shock. This was not at all what he expected during a case.  
Sherlock was surprised. Did John not want him? "I ... I'm sorry?"  
"No, no, don't be, I'm just surprised. You're on a case!" John was so astonished that he even forgot that he was supposed to be angry with Sherlock.  
"I know. That's why I can't bring you with me. I just didn't want you to think that I don't want you. That I don't love you." Sherlock kissed him, gently this time. "I need to focus on the job."  
John looked up at him and a smile broke through on his face. "Thank you." He cupped Sherlock's neck and gently pulled him in for another kiss, this time allowing himself to enjoy it fully.  
This was getting very distracting, but right now Sherlock found that he didn't mind at all. The case could wait for a while. He was so distracted in fact that he did not notice the door open, nor Lestrade's strangled yelp before he quickly closed the door again.  
"Er." John stopped kissing the detective, glancing at the already closed door. "I'll, uhm, I'll get your clothes. The clock's ticking." He couldn't deny himself a last quick peck before he let go of Sherlock.  
Sherlock hugged him one last time. "Thank you."  
"You're welcome. Just send me a text now and then when you're gone. It always helps you to think out loud anyway," John said.  
Sherlock nodded and then went off in search of Donovan.  
...

John was eating a late lunch in the flat when he got his first text from Sherlock. He must still be on the road, probably bored, John thought, opening the message with a small smile.  
'Still no demand for ransom. Sloppy or scared?'  
'So they don't urgently need the money. Probably more personal reasons then? An enemy of the father?' John tried thinking along.  
The next text came a few hours later: 'Why did the girl not crawl?'  
'Why did the boy?' John answered.  
'Exactly.'  
"Ah," John said as he read the message. He hadn't realised he had actually said something clever there. 'Any progress?' he sent.  
'Probably.'  
'Any time you feel like sharing anything...'  
Several hours later, Sherlock wrote: 'It's cold here.'  
John chuckled. 'That's what you get if you don't bring your hugger-blogger along.'  
'That's not fair. You know why I can't.'  
'Not really. Can't be that distracting, can I? It's boring here without you.'  
'Read a book. You're always complaining that I interrupt you, when you do.'  
'Alright then. Good luck with the case. Love you.' He had hesitated about the last two words, but he felt silly enough today as it was, so it wouldn't make much difference.  
'I love you too.'  
It was the last text Sherlock sent for two days.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock had done it again. But when he had been abroad for the case, at least Mycroft had known where he was. Now, the only consulting detective in the world was apparently off-radar for everyone, including the Yard. He could be kidnapped, even killed, for all John knew, and the latter was worried sick.  
"Sherlock, pick up your bloody phone!" he shouted to the voicemail he had already called seven times that day.  
"Okay, but it seems a bit pointless," Sherlock said with a smile, as he came through the door, cheeks red with the cold outside, eyes gleaming with joy. He dropped his bag to the floor and reached out his arms towards John expectantly.  
John stared at him. "You bloody bastard," he said, but he stepped forward to hug Sherlock, as relief momentarily won out over anger.  
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pulling him close and resting his chin on top of his head. "Not quite the greeting I'd expected," he chuckled.  
"I'm going to start shouting in a moment," John said. "Relief, first." Then he pulled back enough to glare at Sherlock. "Where the bloody hell were you and what on earth was important enough to not even send a text?"  
"I couldn't get a signal on Sanday." Sherlock shrugged and pulled John closer, so he could nuzzle his neck.  
John sighed. "We really need to talk about this, though. You can't run off all the time and keep me in the dark. I take things slow and constantly take you into account in everything I do, but apparently even finding a landline somewhere is too much effort for you."  
Sherlock kept his head down, kissing John's neck gently. He really didn't want this to turn into a discussion. He had missed John more than he had expected. Why couldn't he just be happy to have him home?  
John pulled back out of the hug. "Sherlock. Don't ignore me again."  
Sherlock looked surprised. "That was not ignoring you. I was actually giving you my full attention." He reached out to pull John close again.  
"But are you even listening to what I'm saying?" John stepped out of his reach. "This is important. I care about you. Something bad could have happened and perhaps I'd never even have known because no-one knew where you were. You could just have left for more interesting countries forever. You could have died, and I wouldn't have known. Don't you see? If the situation had been reversed, wouldn't you have become worried if I promised you that I would text and next thing you didn't hear from me for two days?"  
Sherlock sighed and resigned to having the conversation. "I'm sorry, John," he began. "You know how it is, when I'm on a case. I don't think about anything else. It's not like I choose to ignore you. It just doesn't occur to me that I am."  
"I know. I'm not asking you to change. Your cases are important. But before, you would just have dragged me along without a second thought. If this-" he motioned between the two of them - "means that you push me away from your work, I'd rather have that things went back to how they were. All this means that I want to be closer to you, Sherlock, not blocked out."  
At the words 'things went back to how they were', Sherlock's heart dropped, and he didn't hear the rest. He just stared at John in hurt shock. Then, swallowing convulsively he turned away. "If that's what you want..."  
John let out a frustrated groan. "No! That's not what I'm saying, just bloody listen! I'm only asking that you don't push me away all the time!"  
Sherlock turned to John again. He was feeling so frustrated he could barely control himself. "I'm. Not. Pushing. You. Away!" he snarled through gritted teeth.  
"Could have fooled me," John said calmly.  
Sherlock snorted as he turned and walked to the other side of the room. He stood for a while, then turned to look at John. "I'm not sure I can handle this. This thing. I don't have the skills to deal with this without hurting you. I know you're not asking much. But I'm afraid you're asking more than I can give."  
John looked at him and swallowed. "Have you tried?"  
"I've done nothing else. But I still end up hurting you. And that hurts me too much. I can't keep trying and failing. It will tear me apart." Sherlock couldn't cope with this. Picking his bag up from where he had thrown it on the floor only minutes ago, he headed for the door.  
John eyed the bag and hurried to Sherlock to grab his arm. "Sherlock, stay. We have to work this out. Please."  
Sherlock shook off his hand, but stopped. "It's no use, John," he sighed. "I'm not good at this. Working it out, talking about feelings. I've only just accepted that I have them. I don't for a second believe that I understand them."  
"I don't think anyone understands. That's not what I'm asking," John said quietly.  
"I don't know what you're asking." Sherlock was desperate now. He just wanted to get away, to not have to deal with this. It was too confusing and too painful. Why couldn't it just have stayed warm and happy and safe?  
John tentatively took Sherlock's hand and stroked his thumb over the back. "I want this. But I also want us to keep working together, like we always did. I want to be by your side. Not just between cases." He looked in Sherlock's eyes. "I've been alone for long enough, and I think you have, too."  
"I want that too," Sherlock answered. His eyes were very red. "But when I'm on a case, I'm sometimes going to forget you're there. And other times, I'm going to look at you and forget what I'm doing. That's why I can't have you there all the time."  
John gently squeezed his hand. "But it wasn't any different before. I was there, and I didn't distract you. Why would it be any different now?"  
Sherlock blushed and looked down. "Because now when I look at you, I want to touch you. I want to kiss you and cuddle up to you. And sometimes when I see you looking at me, I think 'he loves me' and I completely lose my train of thought. I can't work like that. And when I manage to forget that you're there and lose myself in the case, I feel guilty when I see you, because you're looking hurt and alone..." Sherlock knew he was rambling, but explaining this was the hardest thing he had ever done. "It's different now, because that's what it is: different!" He gave up.  
John stepped closer and gently kissed Sherlock's lips. "I think it will be easier in time. When we're used to this, and everything isn't new. And I can give you time to get used to it, now I know this. But I can't read your mind. You have to tell me this kind of things to help me understand." He took the bag out of Sherlock's hand and put it on the floor. "Come here."  
Trembling slightly, Sherlock obeyed and John enveloped him in a warm hug, soothingly stroking the back of his neck. "We'll be fine," he said softly.  
Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulder. "Is that a promise?" He muttered.  
"Yeah, I think so," John smiled. "At least a resolution." He kissed Sherlock's head.  
Sherlock raised his chin and caught John's lips in a long lingering kiss. When he finally broke free, his eyes were burning and his cheeks flushed. "I've missed this so much, I thought I'd lose my mind," he muttered, his voice deep and breathless.  
John cupped Sherlock's face in his hands. "I've missed you too," he whispered.  
Sherlock smiled. "Good." He was about to say something more, but it drowned in a mighty yawn.  
"You didn't sleep, did you?" John said.  
"I forgot," Sherlock admitted.  
"Come on. Go and have a shower, I'll have some tea ready." John went to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and leaned against the cupboard while he was waiting. It was good to have Sherlock back, alive, and to have things spoken out between them. It wouldn't be easy, but John was sure that Sherlock would get used to their feelings and would be able to focus again while he was around. As long as that wasn't the case, John would have to put his adrenalin addiction on hold, but it was worth it.  
When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel, he was feeling relaxed and warm for the first time since he left London. It had been his intention to go find some clean clothes in his room, but when he saw John standing in the kitchen, his back turned as he was pouring the tea, he couldn't resist sneaking up on him for a hug.  
"Hey," John smiled, leaning back against him. "You smell a lot cleaner than before."  
Sherlock just nuzzled his neck and hummed.  
"I'll make some sandwiches, you probably forgot to eat as well. Put something on or you'll freeze to death." John turned his head for a quick kiss.  
"Not hungry," Sherlock replied. "Just tired." He kissed John's neck, just below the ear. "Can't we just go to bed?"  
John hesitated. If Sherlock hadn't seen food in two days, he really should eat. On the other hand, sleep was equally important. "Just a sandwich?" he tried. "It's five minutes, and then you can sleep?"  
Sherlock moaned in complaint. "I'll eat afterwards. I promise." He started pulling John towards the bedroom. "Please?"  
"Alright then." John smiled despite himself as Sherlock pulled him along. "Get in the bed and give me two minutes, I'll just get changed."  
Once in the bedroom, Sherlock felt too tired to do anything but dump the towel on the floor and crawl into bed. He made himself comfortable while listening for John to return, and without realising it, drifted off to sleep.  
John shuffled into the bed with his pyjamas and cleared his throat once he noticed that Sherlock was completely naked. The man was clearly sleeping, though, so John settled against him and tried not to think much of it. After a while, he fell asleep with his face pressed into Sherlock's shoulder.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock only slept a couple of hours, before his growling stomach woke him up. The first thing he noticed was John curled up against him, the next thing was the distinct lack of fabric between John's hand and his own abdomen. Then he noticed the towel on the floor and remembered. Oh God! He blushed from head to toe.  
John was still asleep, his leg pressed between Sherlock's.  
The detective's mind was working at top speed. What should he do? Try slipping away and risk waking John? Feign sleep and let John deal with this when he woke up? Both solutions seemed kind of cowardly, and after John had somehow gotten him into expressing his feelings, he didn't want to just take the easy way out. Very slowly, Sherlock disentangled his legs, turned over in John's embrace, lay a hand on his cheek and kissed him.  
John hummed and his eyelids flickered before he opened his eyes for a moment. Then he pulled back from the kiss, wrapped his arm tighter around Sherlock and pressed his face into the other man's chest, immediately falling asleep again.  
Sherlock chuckled, kissed John on the top of his head, and resigned to not getting something to eat any time soon. Smiling, he let his fingers play with John's hair. Eventually he too fell asleep again.  
When John woke up, hours later, Sherlock had ended up on top of him, and he noticed that his own body had not stayed unaware of that fact. He tried to gently push Sherlock off him, but it didn't help much; the detective could be very much like a koala when he was asleep.  
Still mostly asleep, Sherlock felt John stir. He moaned a complaint.  
John let his head fall back on the pillow and decided not to move too much, as that didn't exactly help matters.  
Very slowly, Sherlock started to wake up. He was so incredibly comfortable that he never wanted to move again. In the end though, he raised his head slightly so he could look at John. His face split in a happy grin. "Good morning."  
"Good morning." John smiled back, even though he felt flustered and was probably blushing.  
Sherlock giggled at the look on John's face. "I'm sorry. I was a little too tired last night. I didn't quite think this through."  
"Yes, well. Not that I don't like this, but could you get off me?" John asked, wriggling a bit uncomfortably.  
"Sorry," Sherlock repeated as he rolled to the side, making sure to stay covered.  
"No problem. I'm going to have a shower," John said, getting up.  
"Okay," Sherlock pulled the sheet up to his chin, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. John sure seemed in a hurry to get away.  
John gave him a quick kiss and hurried to the bathroom. He sighed as he got under the hot water and slowly started stroking himself.  
Sherlock lay in bed and wondered if he'd somehow managed to screw this up again. No, he decided. He was not going to panic this time. John had expressed a wish to be naked together, and though it was quite by accident that Sherlock had taken the first step, he was not going to be embarrassed about it. And besides, John had evidently not minded it. Sherlock wasn't sure why he had fled, but he would try John's approach this time and talk about it, as soon as John came back.  
John didn't need very long before he could return to the bedroom, where Sherlock was still lying. "Breakfast?" he asked, while he started putting on his clothes.  
"Not yet," Sherlock answered. Then he added: "John. Talk to me."  
John frowned and sat down on the bed, still only wearing his pants and undershirt. "What about?"  
"Just now, -" Sherlock sat up, not bothering to cover himself up this time - "why were you in such a hurry to get away from me?" He was very careful to not sound hurt, merely interested.  
John looked at Sherlock for a moment, then started laughing. "Uhm. Pressing matters? Didn't you feel it against your leg?"  
Sherlock smiled. "Yes, but that's happened before. Why run away?"  
"It couldn't wait this time," John answered, blushing.  
Sherlock just looked at him, for a long time. Then he said: "John, you don't have to run away from me for that. I love you. I want you. All of you."  
John swallowed. "Really? I mean... You didn't want to..." He looked at a loss for words.  
Now it was Sherlock's turn to blush. "I don't know what I wanted... but... Let's figure it out together."  
John smiled widely at him. "Good idea." He leaned over to kiss him  
Sighing in relief that this was not going to be another problem, Sherlock pulled John closer as he returned the kiss. John gently stroked Sherlock's shoulders and closed his eyes, still smiling. Sherlock hummed with pleasure at the touch. Then he lay down, pulling John along, so he ended up on top of him.  
"Are you, uhm, do you want me to touch you?" John asked breathlessly.  
"If you want to." Sherlock's voice was shaking slightly.  
John pressed their lips together again, his heart beating fast as his hands wandered down the other man's sides. "Tell me whenever you want me to stop," he whispered against Sherlock's mouth.  
Though he was feeling more than a little nervous, Sherlock managed to chuckle. "I'm not made of glass, you know."  
"Doesn't matter. Just don't let me make you feel uncomfortable," John said earnestly, keeping his hands at the height of Sherlock's hips, only softly moving his thumbs over them.  
Sherlock sucked on John's lip. Then he whispered: "I doubt I could be uncomfortable with you."  
John kissed him again and rolled his hips against Sherlock's. He kept hovering over Sherlock's face for a moment, watching him. "I love you,” he said softly. Then he bent down and started sucking on the side of Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock gasped at the contact and threw his head back, giving John access to even more of his neck.  
John kept his mouth locked on the long pale neck, but shifted his hips so he could reach between them and experimentally stroked Sherlock with just his thumb.  
For a second Sherlock froze, then he made a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper as he arched his back, pressing against John, his fingertips digging into his back.  
John gasped and pulled away from Sherlock's neck for air. He brushed the fingertips of his right hand over Sherlock's cheek and looked in his eyes as he wrapped his left hand firmly around the other man's cock.  
Sherlock's eyes were wide, his breathing quick and shallow, as he pulled John in for a kiss, hardly giving him time to breathe. John answered the kiss hungrily and started stroking him slowly. Sherlock closed his eyes, and gave in to the sensation completely. He could already feel the heat building inside of him. He clung to John, moaning his name over and over. John sped up his hand and wished he hadn't put on his pants before he came back to bed, but he couldn't take the time to get them off now. This was about Sherlock. John still could hardly believe that they were doing this, but clearly they were both enjoying it, judging by Sherlock's moans, the sound of which aroused him almost as much as when he had been touching himself under the shower.  
Sherlock's world contracted until it was nothing but John's hand and John's body. Then everything expanded and he cried out in ecstasy. John caught his lips and kept stroking him softly through his orgasm, rubbing his own cock against Sherlock's thigh through the fabric of his pants.  
As the world swam back into focus, Sherlock felt John's lips on his, and kissed him passionately. He reached down and forced his hand between their bodies so he could cup John's erection through the cloth. John moaned and rocked forward in Sherlock's hand.  
The clothes were in the way and the angle awkward, so Sherlock pushed John off him onto the bed and quickly slid his pants down. Through it all he never let his lips leave John's, his tongue probing and teasing.  
John was panting into Sherlock's mouth and tried pulling him closer as Sherlock wrapped his fingers around John's cock and experimentally started stroking. John shivered and clung onto Sherlock's shoulders. He felt that this wouldn't take long; just the thought that Sherlock was touching him... He had wanted this for so long.  
Sherlock took John's reaction as an encouragement. He tightened his grip and increased the pace as he moved his head down, to nibble gently on John's neck.  
"Sherlock," John gasped warningly. Moments later, he was spilling over Sherlock's hand with a loud groan.  
After a long lingering kiss, Sherlock pulled back with a smile. "Shower?" he asked.  
John laughed breathlessly. "Yeah." He wrapped his arms around Sherlock, with no intention to move just yet.  
Sherlock kissed John again. "I love you," he whispered.  
"I love you too," John said, resting their foreheads together and stroking Sherlock's shoulder blade. "You are amazing."  
"So are you." Sherlock squirmed a little. "I'm sorry if this goes against some kind of etiquette, but I'm starting to feel rather sticky..."  
John laughed again. "No, no, it's fine, I'm just lazy. Shower. Come on." He pressed a kiss on Sherlock's cheek and pushed him up.  
Relieved that John wasn't offended, Sherlock got to his feet, took John's hand and led him to the bathroom. John let the hot water stream and pulled Sherlock into a close hug under it, resting his head against his shoulder.  
Sherlock practically wrapped himself around John as he buried his nose in his wet hair.  
John stroked his back. "Thank you," he said softly.  
"For what?" Sherlock mumbled, still nuzzling the top of John's head contentedly.  
"Just. Everything," John shrugged. He kissed Sherlock's shoulder. "You make me happy."  
"Good," Sherlock replied.


	12. Chapter 12

John made bacon and eggs for breakfast and enjoyed the enthusiasm with which Sherlock ate more than his share. Of course that had something to do with more than two days without food, but John liked to think that sex gave the detective an appetite, and he decided that it had to happen more often. Every time he thought of that morning, he couldn't help but smile, and Sherlock looked as if he was in the same state of bliss. Still, John didn't have his hopes up that this would happen again any time soon. The world was still full of cases to solve, and if Sherlock was already distracted by just his presence these days, their activities probably hadn't helped. Sherlock hadn't said much about the case yet, even though John had asked while he was cooking. For now, Sherlock seemed to think John's neck and hands even more interesting than a complicated kidnapping, and John didn't feel like changing that any sooner than necessary.  
Sherlock couldn't eat another bite. He just sat at the table feeling unusually full and incredibly relaxed. John was sitting next to him, and Sherlock let his eyes and fingers explore his skin lazily, only half aware of the contended grin spread across his face. This morning was so perfect, and even though he knew that he had a job that needed to be done, a job that was in fact quite pressing, he just couldn't bring himself to care right now. Soon they would have to go out there, in the busy world that was London, but for now, just a little longer, they could stay here and just be together.  
He let out a groan of frustration as his phone buzzed. Well, it had been great while it lasted. John gave the phone a dirty look as if it had personally offended him and let go of Sherlock's hand so the detective could pick it up.  
Sighing, Sherlock answered the phone and after a brief exchange turned to John.  
"Lestrade seems to think that I should get myself down to the Yard and fill him in on the case..."  
John nodded and leaned in for a kiss. "It had to happen at some point," he said.  
Sherlock kissed John back and then asked: "Do you want to come along?"  
"Of course!" John answered, surprised that Sherlock even had to ask.  
"Great," Sherlock smiled. "Can you get us a cab? I need to make a phone call first."  
John complied and went downstairs. Sherlock joined him a few minutes later, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. John grinned up at him.  
...  
Lestrade came to greet them as soon as they arrived, hurrying them to his office where the team working on the kidnapping was gathered.  
"So?" he asked.  
Anderson and Donovan were standing together, whispering and glancing at them. Sherlock took a long look at them and considered commenting on the faint trace of lipstick on Anderson's collar, which did not match Donovan's.  
John just glared at them, starting to feel annoyed again. He hadn't forgotten Donovan's rudeness earlier that week. He also had the feeling that Lestrade looked a bit embarrassed.  
Sherlock took a deep breath and then launched into his account of the case.  
"I examined the fragments John collected for me, and found them to contain a quite unique soil type only found in… certain areas." He beamed at John as he spoke his name. Donovan giggled as Anderson nudged her ribs with his elbow. And to top it all off, Lestrade went bright red.  
Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock tried to continue. "The flat itself was another clue. It was not the home of a happy family. You noticed too, didn't you, John?" At this Anderson let out a guffaw which made Donovan snort.  
"Oh for heaven's sake," Sherlock exclaimed. He stared at them all in turn, then he strode across the office, grabbed John by the shoulders, pulled him close and planted a very passionate kiss on his lips.  
When he let go, John stared at him, half in awe. Alright, Anderson and Donovan had been incredibly annoying and childish, but this was the last thing he had expected and he didn't completely agree with doing this in public. On the other hand, it made things clear and he was proud that Sherlock wasn't ashamed to show this. He sent a smug look at the three others, who were staring open-mouthed until Lestrade cleared his throat. "Go on, Sherlock."  
Sherlock glared at the others. "Have we all got it out of our systems now?" he snapped.  
Anderson and Donovan were looking anywhere but at Sherlock, and Lestrade cleared his throat again, clearly trying to compose himself. "Yes. Please, Sherlock: the victims. Do you know anything about the victims?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "Oh yeah. They're fine."  
"What?" Lestrade looked at him, incredulously. "You've actually seen them?"  
"Oh yes," Sherlock was starting to realise that he had gone about this all backwards. Cursing himself, he began to explain. "They were never really kidnapped. The mother and her boyfriend went underground with the children. He was a crime show fan, so he tried to make the flat look like something violent had happened. The forced door, the overturned table. Those were all false clues. They even made the kids hide under the bed, pretending it was a game as they dragged them out. Only, the boy did not trust the man, so he wouldn't let himself be dragged."  
"But why?" Lestrade asked.  
Sherlock smiled. "It was actually not a bad idea." He enjoyed holding his audience captivated as he unravelled the mystery. "The mother recently lost her job, and the ex-husband was suing for full custody of the children, on the grounds that she could no longer support the family. But the man has a history of violence towards women, including his ex-wife, and she was afraid that he might turn on the children, were they to be given to him. So she turned to her boyfriend for help, and they thought this up. They hadn't really expected any ransom to be paid, they just didn't want to be found, before they had figured out a way to keep the children safe. It would have worked too, had I not been brought in on this." He shrugged. Having met the distraught couple, he had almost wished that he hadn't found them. But then he had made them a promise.  
"Okay," Lestrade said. "So, you know where they are. Let's bring them in."  
"No," Sherlock answered.  
Everyone stared at him.  
"No?" Donovan asked exasperatedly.  
"No," Sherlock repeated. "I've taken their case."  
"What case?"  
"I'm going to help them prove that the ex-husband would be an unfit father. Shouldn't be hard, considering his history. The only problem is that none of the women ever pressed charges, so either I'll have to track down one who is willing to give a statement, or make him either confess or reveal himself in some way. Until then, the family stays hidden." He shot John a meaningful glance, silently asking him not to give out any information.  
John smiled at him and gave a small nod. Laws were laws and that was all very well, but he was proud of Sherlock for having made the decision he had made. Whoever thought that the detective wasn't human at all, was a fool.  
Lestrade frowned. "I'm not sure I can let you do that, Sherlock. That's more than bordering on obstruction of justice. If there's a custody case on the way, hiding the children from the father is criminal."  
Sherlock smiled. "Yes, the mother and her boyfriend know that they'll be facing some kind of consequence, but the children's safety is more important to them."  
"But it's not just that." Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "If you know where they are and you’re not telling us, it's criminal too."  
To everyone's surprise Sherlock chuckled at this. "Then it's a good thing I don't know where they are."  
John intently watched Lestrade. He was almost certain that the DI wouldn't take anything against Sherlock, but the two others present in the room were something else. "Sherlock has a point here, Greg," he defended. "It's more important to keep the children safe if that man really is a danger to them."  
"Why don't you two have a child then, if they're so important?" Donovan asked, rolling her eyes. Anderson pulled an exaggerated grimace at the thought.  
Sherlock looked calmly at her. "Why? Are you offering to surrogate?" Ignoring her appalled look, he turned back to Lestrade.  
"I spoke to the mother before coming here today. John can confirm when I made the call and I recorded the whole conversation. She informed me that they were moving the children, but not where."  
Lestrade shrugged indecisively. "But what do we tell our superiors? We can't say that we close the case because we think we know better than the law."  
Sherlock shrugged. "Tell them that the case is solved. The kidnapping was a hoax. Tracking the fugitive family down does not fall under this department surely. Just pass it on." He turned to John and reached out a hand towards him. "I think we're done here."  
John let his eyes quickly slide over the mocking glances of Donovan and Anderson before he took Sherlock's hand and looked up at him. "See you, Greg," he said to Lestrade before they walked off, hand in hand.  
...  
Once outside, Sherlock stopped. He turned to John, looking a bit embarrassed. "Sorry about that," he said. "I just got fed up with them."  
"It's okay," John smiled. "Just don't make a habit of it, I'd like to keep at least some things private between us."  
"Don't worry," Sherlock grinned slyly. "There are plenty of things I don't plan on sharing with anyone else."  
John cleared his throat. "So, ehm. Case closed? What are we going to do?"  
Sherlock smiled. "Home?"  
John smiled back. "And then?" he asked softer, while he hailed a cab.  
"Oh, I'm sure we can think of something."


	13. Chapter 13

When they got back to the flat, John settled in the sofa. "Do you really not know where the children are?" he asked.  
Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't got a clue."  
John smiled. "They must be very good if they managed to keep you in the dark. Why are you still standing on the other side of the room when there is a lot of Sherlock-shaped space here?"  
"It's not that hard keeping things from me that I don't want to know," Sherlock said, chuckling as he joined John on the sofa.  
John caressed his jaw and kissed him gently before snuggling against him. "So you didn't want to know that I loved you, before I told you," he teased.  
"That, my dear doctor, is something completely different." Sherlock ruffled his hair. "I told you. Blind spot!"  
"Hmm," John smiled. "Shall I get us some tea?"  
Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's shoulder, so he couldn't get up. "No," he answered.  
John gave him an impish look. "Good."  
Chuckling, Sherlock pulled him closer. "You wouldn't want to risk me getting bored, would you?"  
"Oh, no. Can't have that," John said, playing serious.  
"That would be very bad." If John could keep a straight face, so could Sherlock, though a smirk was starting to pull at the corners of his mouth.  
"So what do you want do to about it, my dear sir?"  
"Well, doctor." Sherlock barely suppressed a giggle. "I was hoping you had an idea. After all you were such a great help last time."  
"Would you like this cure for boredom in the same style as that one, or would you like something more along the lines of this morning?" John queried politely.  
"What do you think would be most effective?" Sherlock couldn't help running the tips of his fingers up John's neck and into his hair, though he still managed to keep his face impassive.  
"Well," John answered, a little less deadpan now he had to suppress a shiver as Sherlock's finger passed a ticklish spot, "you seemed to rather enjoy yourself in the early hours of today, my good chap - god, that did not sound sexy."  
Sherlock giggled. "Okay, you win." He turned to John, grabbed him by the hair and kissed him.  
John enthusiastically kissed him back, also tangling his hands in Sherlock's hair.  
"Good chap," Sherlock mumbled against his lips and snorted.  
"Shut up, you!" John said, pulling back as he was grinning. "But seriously now. What do you want?" He trailed his fingers over Sherlock's upper arm.  
Sherlock smiled and kissed John gently and briefly. "I just want us to be together. This case may be sort of over, but we've already got a new one, and it can't wait for long."  
"Ah. Not long enough for -?" He waved a bit ridiculously at their crotch area and blushed.  
"I think we can make time for that." Sherlock looked down. "I think we may have to."  
John laughed and pressed a smiling kiss on Sherlock's lips. "I love you."  
"I know," Sherlock smirked.  
John flung his leg over Sherlock's so he was sitting in his lap, facing him, and hungrily kissed him again.  
Sherlock pushed upwards against John, moaning at the contact. Then he started tugging at John's jumper, a little frantically.  
"Right. Right, clothes. Didn't think of that," John mumbled, helping to get rid of the jumper. Next thing his fingers were flying over the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. He rolled his hips down against Sherlock as he pushed the shirt off his shoulders.  
Sherlock gasped and thrust upwards again. Moaning John's name, he pulled his head down for another kiss. John moaned as he sucked on Sherlock's tongue, clumsily trying to get the other man's trousers open. Sherlock batted John's hands away and quickly got the button open. Then he lifted his hips slightly, allowing John to tug the trousers down.  
John never broke their kiss as he pulled Sherlock's trousers and pants to his ankles and pushed him down on the sofa again. He stroked back up his thighs and stomach, moaning quietly.  
Sherlock quickly undid John's trousers. Not bothering to slide them off, he reached a hand inside.  
John squirmed. "Not like this," he panted, gently taking Sherlock's hand away and getting his own remaining clothes off. He sat down on Sherlock's lap again and pressed their cocks together, looking down at them and sighing. "God, yes..."  
Sherlock followed John's gaze. He moaned and then moved, grinding against him.  
John cursed and curled a hand around them both.  
"Oh, God!" Sherlock gasped as he closed his eyes and let his head fall back.  
John started kissing his neck, making the sensation even more intense.  
Sherlock reached down and placed his hand over John's. Eyes still closed, he nudged John's head, trying to find his lips with his own. John got lost in the kiss and also closed his eyes, moaning as he stroked them. "Close," he whispered against Sherlock's lips.  
"Good," was Sherlock's muffled reply, his whole body trembling, trying to hold back, to wait for John.  
John sucked on his bottom lip, the hand that wasn't between them splayed on Sherlock's back to keep him close, and he came with a strangled cry.  
Sherlock soon followed, gasping against John's lips.  
John sagged with his head on Sherlock's shoulder to catch his breath, absent-mindedly stroking the detective's other arm.  
Lazily, Sherlock started kissing and nibbling at John's ear, placed so temptingly close to his mouth.  
John smiled. "I love you." He lifted his head and kissed him gently. "You're a good lover. Did you really never...?"  
Sherlock blushed. "Well... I wouldn't say never..."  
John kissed his jaw. "Experiment?" he asked, interested.  
"Not really... more like... stupid."  
John frowned. "Tell me?"  
Sherlock looked away. "I'd rather not talk about it... If it's okay?"  
"I... Well..." John forced his curiosity down. "No, of course it's okay. I trust that if there's anything I really need to know you'll tell me."  
"Thank you," Sherlock turned his head and kissed John softly.  
John stroked the side of his face. "Can I know what you did? I mean, how far did you go?"  
Sherlock tensed. He closed his eyes, not wanting to look at John. "Look, it was at a bad point in my life. When I was... you know..."  
"Sherlock, it's fine." John soothingly rubbed his fingertips over Sherlock's neck. "It was only a question. It's fine. I was only asking because, you know, in some situations you might perhaps be more experienced than me." He nuzzled his cheek. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I love you."  
"It's okay, John. But no, I don't really have much experience. It was all really hurried and awkward and truth be told, I don't remember it very clearly." He bit his lip, keeping his eyes shut tight.  
John softly kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "The more motivation to make your experiences better now."  
Sherlock's smile was small but genuine. "I love you," he whispered.  
"You too. Want to shower?"  
"Thought you'd never ask."


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock sat at the foot of the bed, dressed only in pants and a t-shirt. His legs were crossed in front of him and he was rifling through a small stack of papers. When John opened his eyes, he smiled at him brightly. ”Good morning.” Without waiting for a response he continued: ”I've tracked down seven possible victims of Anthony Harris.” Noticing John's puzzled look, he explained: “The ex-husband. The father of the missing children.” Then he held out some papers for John. ”These three are the ones most likely to talk. I would like you to interview them. I would probably be able to get them to talk faster, but your way is likely to be more… delicate.” He grinned.  
"Since when do you care about being delicate?" John smiled, stretching. Then he got on his knees and went to the foot of the bed to kiss Sherlock's cheek, and sat down next to him to thumb through the papers.  
"Since I started caring what you think," Sherlock leaned against John, resting his head on his shoulder.  
John kissed the corner of his mouth, smiling, before he directed his attention back to the files. "Oh, she looks nice," he teased, pointing at a picture of one of the ladies he had to interview.  
Sherlock glared at him for a moment, before his face broke into a smile. "Just your type, is she? Well, then you know where to start."  
"My type looks slightly different these days," John smirked. "I'll just go and get dressed then." He stood up.  
Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled him down on the bed. "In a minute," he chuckled before bending down to kiss him.  
John laughed and kissed him back, his hands automatically landing in the mess of black curls. "I thought the case was urgent," he said smugly.  
"Very urgent," Sherlock murmured against John's lips. "On the other hand, the children are safe at the moment..."  
Sherlock's low voice made John's breathing grow uneven. "Won't you be cross that I'm distracting you?"  
"Very, very cross," Sherlock leaned close to John's ear, letting his lips brush against it, before moving down to his neck, kissing and licking playfully. John moaned and slipped his hands under Sherlock's t-shirt to stroke his back.  
Sherlock lay down on the bed, pulling John close, biting gently into his shoulder. "See why I can't work with you," he muttered.  
John kissed him again. "See why I get worried when you don't let me know if everything is alright with you," he replied, smiling.  
"Everything is just fine at the moment..." Sherlock let his hands trail down John's sides, almost not tickling. John huffed and caught his hands, reaching to kiss a sensitive spot on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock giggled, rather unmanly. "Let go," he said, trying and failing to pout.  
"Not unless that really is what you want," John said, before he sucked further down his neck and clavicle.  
"Okay. Then don't let go." Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back.  
John smiled and pulled the t-shirt over Sherlock's head before kissing him again.  
"You really are good at this distraction thing, you know," Sherlock mumbled, and then ran his tongue over John's lips.  
"Perhaps you're just easily distracted," John breathed, lowering his hands to Sherlock's hips.  
"Are you calling me easy?" Sherlock pulled a rather convincing frown, and pushed John's hands away.  
"Easily distracted," John pointed out. "I've had to wait long enough!"  
"Okay then. Distract me," Sherlock rolled onto his back, letting his hands rest in apparent surrender beside his head.  
John smirked and took the time to have a good look at Sherlock, his fingertips caressing the tall man's chest, before he bent down and mouthed the front of Sherlock's pants.  
Sherlock gasped and failed completely at sounding casual as he said: "Yes, that might work..." He moaned.  
John pressed his tongue against the head of Sherlock's cock and nuzzled the fabric above it.  
"Oh..." Sherlock muttered. "Wow... that's... " He gave up and just closed his eyes, his mouth slightly open.  
"So I take it that you think this is a good idea," John smiled, pulling back to rip Sherlock's pants off. He flung them next to the bed and started kissing Sherlock's shaft.  
Sherlock just nodded, his breathing becoming shallow and fast as John took him between his lips and slowly licked the head again. Sherlock's hand's grabbed the sheets and tangled in them, as he groaned softly.  
John rubbed his fingertips gently over Sherlock's hip bones and guided his cock a little deeper into his mouth with his tongue.  
"Oh, god, John..." Sherlock moaned, fighting not to push upwards.  
John swirled his tongue around him in faster movements, bobbing his head a little.  
Without thinking, Sherlock moved his hand to the back of John's head, his fingers tangling in his hair.  
John made a small noise. He would have thought it annoying if he had imagined a man grabbing his hair while he was sucking him off - the very idea something he had left far behind him anyway - but somehow it made his own arousal throb even harder.  
But at the sound, Sherlock pulled his hand away. "Sorry," he murmured, "It's just ... so..." His voice trailed off again.  
John pulled off for a moment and kissed the tip of his cock. "It's fine." Then he took the base lightly in his hand and stroked in the same rhythm as that of his mouth.  
Sherlock gasped and once again tangled his fingers in the sheets, mainly to keep his hand from straying. He could not however stop his hips from bucking upwards a little.  
John pulled back and coughed, but it couldn't bring him off his determination to make Sherlock come this way, and once his mouth was in its place again he sucked him hard.  
Sherlock writhed beneath him, and moaned. Then he gasped "close" and tried to pull away from John. Yet John didn't let him go and licked him again, wincing for a moment as the strange taste hit him but quickly adjusting.  
Sherlock cried out and then fell back, out of breath, his whole body trembling.  
John swallowed and dropped soft kisses on Sherlock's lower stomach, stroking his sides.  
Sherlock reached down and caressed his cheek. "Sorry," he muttered.  
John frowned and looked up, confused. "Sorry?"  
"I think I got too eager at one point... Did I hurt you?"  
"I'm perfectly fine." John pressed another kiss on Sherlock's stomach. "Only, you know..." He glanced down at his own straining erection.  
"Oh, right." Sherlock grinned. "Sorry." He reached down a hand and started stroking gently. "Just give me a minute to catch my breath."  
John whimpered and pushed himself harder against Sherlock's palm.  
In response, he wrapped his fingers tightly around John's cock and started kissing his way down his chest. John moaned and laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  
His lips against John's belly, Sherlock murmured: "Just so you don't get your hopes up... I've actually never done this before..."  
"Don't care," John groaned. He wanted to say that he hadn't done such a bad job himself with only one experience in pleasing a man like that, after losing a wager with a very horny but fortunately also attractive man in the army, but words just wouldn't form and he sighed as Sherlock pushed him down on his back to continue.  
Deciding to ease into this, Sherlock started using his tongue, licking slowly from root to tip, revelling in the taste and texture. It was John's time to tangle his hands in the sheets, moaning helplessly. Sherlock smiled at the response. Then, experimentally, he let his lips engulf the head, his tongue still exploring.  
John softly cried out and closed his eyes, even though he actually wanted to watch. Next time, he thought as he let pleasure take over.  
Sherlock sucked and tested how far he could take John in. When it became uncomfortable he pulled back, letting his tongue flick against the head.  
"Sherlock," John gasped. "Almost, god..." He squirmed as he tried to keep his hips from bucking up.  
Sherlock wrapped his hand around the root, squeezing a little. Then he changed the angle of his head and tried again. Much better. He sucked a little harder and started moving up and down.  
"Fuck," John whispered, his head thrown back as he was coming.  
Sherlock almost pulled back in surprise, but stopped himself. He wondered at the taste and texture for a couple of seconds before swallowing.  
"You didn't have to," John panted, slowly opening his eyes again and propping himself up on his elbows to look down at Sherlock, his expression a mix of fondness and worry.  
"I wanted to," Sherlock smiled up at him, still somewhat out of breath. "It felt... " he thought for a moment, "... good."  
"Come here," John said, kissing Sherlock as soon as he could reach for him.  
Sherlock smiled and snuggled against John. "That was a very good distraction."  
John hummed and smiled, brushing an errant curl from Sherlock's forehead. "We should probably get up and get to work."  
Sherlock sighed. "Yes, we should." He wrapped his arms around John. "In a minute..." John happily closed his eyes.  
Three hours later, he was startled awake as Sherlock woke up with a jolt.  
"Bugger!" Sherlock flew out of bed, frantically searching for his clothes. "How the hell...?" He tore at his hair and then stared for a long moment at John. "Shit," he mumbled.  
John rolled on to his back. "What?" He hadn't looked at the clock yet.  
Sherlock picked up John's shirt and tossed it at his head.  
"I was supposed to catch Harris as he left for work. He'll be at the shop now... God damn it." He stabbed his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, a frantic look in his eyes. "I knew this would happen if I..." he cut himself off and looked at John, mortified.  
"You regret it," John said quietly, turning his eyes down to his shirt.  
Sherlock stood frozen for a moment. Then he slumped down on the bed, next to John. "No, I don't... I just..." He shook his head. "I let myself get distracted..."  
"You fell asleep, Sherlock. It's only human. The world's still turning." He looked up at him with a hurt expression.  
Sherlock bit his lip, and looked a John for a long moment. "I know... I'm sorry. It's not your fault..." He reached out a hand and gently stroked John's cheek. "I just can't..." Then he got to his feet and turned away, slowly buttoning his shirt.  
John sighed and swallowed. He didn't have the energy to convince Sherlock that he bloody well could now. Without a word he got dressed and went to make tea.  
Sherlock disappeared to the bathroom and when he got out he seemed calm but distant. As he put on his coat he said: "I'll probably be gone for most of the day. Keep me updated on your interviews, okay?"  
John nodded. "Yeah. I'll be gone in a minute myself, just finishing my tea and a sandwich. Good luck." He hadn't expected a kiss before Sherlock left, but it still hurt that he was right.  
For a moment, Sherlock hesitated in the door, then he turned and left.


	15. Chapter 15

“So can you tell me exactly what happened when he attacked you?” John asked.  
He was interviewing the last of the three women, and although their stories had kept his thoughts away from his disappointment earlier that day, they certainly hadn’t made him feel happy. Anthony Harris turned out to be more than a brute, and indeed it wouldn’t be difficult for Sherlock to prove that he was unfit as a father.  
The woman swallowed. “I still don’t understand how you found me. I’ve never told the police anything about this,” she answered in a broken voice. It was hard to gain Martha Nobbs’ confidence after what had happened, even after John had been talking to her for almost half an hour in the café.  
“I know, but I’m here to help,” John answered patiently. “We’re trying to make sure that he doesn’t make more victims and that he can’t harm his own children.”  
“Alright.” She sighed and collected her courage. “We'd met at the pub. He'd been trying to chat up me and my friend but we turned him down. He left and we forgot about him. But then, when I was walking home, he attacked me. I was a bit drunk and I stumbled and lost a shoe, and the next thing I felt was that he hit me on the head with my own shoe and dragged me away. I don’t have to tell you what happened once we were alone in an alleyway.” She looked at her hands, beaten.  
“I’m so sorry, Martha,” John said. He said goodbye and wished her strength for a long while, before he walked out and texted to Sherlock what he had found out. It was almost evening, and of course communication had been one-sided again. Sherlock had probably read everything, but John didn’t have a clue where the other man was. He took a cab home, hoping he would find him there.  
-  
Sherlock groaned as he more sensed than heard his phone buzzing somewhere near. He tried reaching for it, but at the first attempt at movement, pain like burning knives shot up his arm and shoulder, making him scream.  
-  
When John got home, he found that Sherlock wasn't there. He sighed and decided to try calling. At least the chance was a little bigger that Sherlock would hear that, and maybe some day he would understand that he had to pick up when John called, to prevent him from getting worried, wouldn't he?  
-  
Giving up on his right arm, Sherlock tried moving the left. It wasn't nearly as bad, but the muscles working sent stabs of sharp pain down through his ribs, making him gasp.  
-  
John sighed and threw his phone down in the sofa after two attempts at calling. He made dinner and put Sherlock's plate in the fridge - after all, he had said that he would be gone for most of the day, so it was no use waiting for him. Flicking through channels on the telly, he sent another text, just to bother Sherlock.  
-  
His head was aching, and when he tried opening his eyes, everything was a blur. His phone kept buzzing, and he focused on the sound, fighting off the looming darkness.  
-  
John had actually drifted off for a short nap, and he frowned as he woke up and saw the clock. After going to put his plate in the sink, he started wondering if he could join Sherlock somewhere, but once again he had no idea where in London the detective could be. He sent him another text. If Sherlock was always like this, he'd never know if something serious was going on with him, he thought, annoyed, while chewing on the inside of his cheek.  
-  
Sherlock gave in and surrendered to painless oblivion for a while.  
-  
John felt like an idiot when he was texting Lestrade and Mycroft again about Sherlock's whereabouts, after his shower. At first they both didn't answer for fifteen minutes, and then suddenly their answer was there at almost exactly the same time, but neither knew where Sherlock was and Mycroft had added that he didn't feel like going to look for him; he'd show up, just like always.  
-  
Sherlock heard voices. He fought his way back to consciousness. He tried calling out, but his throat was burning and it was little more than a croak.  
-  
John sat in the middle of the bed, his arms around his knees. It was getting late and he wanted some sleep, but on the other hand he - well, he wanted Sherlock. Not even in the erotic way. Something was starting to feel wrong, but chances were that he was just being silly and that Sherlock was just being the same inconsiderate idiot as always. He tried calling him again, without success, and put his phone on the bedside table. He laid himself down on his back, but he couldn't catch any sleep.  
-  
A warm hand touched his cheek and Sherlock forced his eyes open. A concerned but unfamiliar face hovered above him. "Oh my God. What happened to you?" someone was asking.  
-  
After tossing and turning for quite some time, more or less convinced that he wouldn't see Sherlock again that day, John got up again. The telly was still crap and he couldn't focus on reading because he was too annoyed by boredom and a ridiculous... partner, who felt too important to be distracted for long enough to let him know where he was and if he had any intention of coming home.  
-  
Sherlock whimpered in pain as he was carefully eased onto the stretcher and an oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose. He wanted to tell someone to get his phone, which he knew lay only a little way off, but he could not formulate any words. When he tried to gesture, the pain increased and a gentle but firm hand took hold of his wrist. "Take it easy there. You'll be alright."  
-

Huffing to no-one, John went to bed, and after some time finally fell into a light sleep, full of strange short dream fragments.  
-  
Lights were sweeping past Sherlock, voices tuning themselves in and out. "Fractured right ulna," someone was saying. "Possible dislocation... ribs cracked... bent... get an x-ray... split eyebrow and lip..." Sherlock groaned, wanting the voice to go away. "Definitely concussed..." another voice added, and then it all went away for a while.  
-  
It was a little past three in the morning and John jolted awake again. The feeling that something was wrong was creeping over him more than ever, and an almost-nightmare about Afghanistan hadn't helped things. He shook his head and got himself some water, before lying down again.  
-  
He was in a soft bed and someone was spewing out information in a manner that absurdly reminded him of himself when explaining a crime scene. The pain had significantly lessened, which he suspected had something to do with the IV he could feel in his left hand.  
"Bruises and petechial hemorrhage point to strangulation, so there will most likely be some damage to the larynx. Also suspected trauma to the spleen and kidneys," the voice droned. "I think we can safely assume that this was an assault. Call in the Met."  
Sherlock heartily agreed with the last bit, as he slipped into unconsciousness again.  
-  
John had finally dozed off to some sleep of better quality, when the phone started ringing. "Bloody hell, Sherlock," he muttered into the pillow, before throwing a quick glance at the clock. "Really, I'm going to-" A look at the screen told him that it wasn't Sherlock calling, but Lestrade. For a moment he stopped breathing, then quickly pressed the phone against his ear, filled with fear.  
"Hello."  
"John. It's Sherlock. He's hurt." Lestrade's voice was shaking with the shock he had just suffered when recognising the battered victim in the hospital bed.  
John's heart was hammering in his chest. "Where is he? Will he be okay?" He jumped from the bed and started pulling on his trousers, phone still in one hand.  
"Christ John, I don't know," Lestrade admitted. "He's at the A&E at the Royal, but I think they're moving him to intensive care."  
John bit his lip and tried not to panic. "I'm on my way. Could you - can you send a car? It's quicker than getting a cab at this hour and - God, I need to see him."  
"It's already on its way." Lestrade drew in a sharp breath. "Look, John. I have to get back in there..."  
"Yeah. Yeah, that's fine." He hardly heard himself speaking. "Thank you, Greg."  
"John..." he hesitated. "Just get here..."  
John put away his phone and got dressed in a haze. God, Lestrade had sounded as if he should hurry to even say goodbye to Sherlock... No, he couldn't think like that, things couldn't be that bad. Of course Sherlock was stronger. He had to be.


	16. Chapter 16

Once in the police car, John was even more fidgety, looking out the window to the streets that still passed too slowly, and not really hearing anything the police woman was saying. If only Sherlock hadn't been so bloody stubborn and had allowed him to go along. If he hadn't had that stupid distraction complex, he would have had a gun and a man at his back to protect him, but no. John desperately tried to swallow away the feeling of guilt - he should have gone to find Sherlock anyway once he got worried; never mind how much of an idiot the detective was all the time, sending no messages at all...  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes is in too bad a state. I can't allow you in," the nurse in front of Sherlock's door said. Somehow, John could register that she had a Scottish accent.  
"I need to see him." He was surprised how much panic sounded through his own voice.  
The woman was shaking her head, but then Lestrade came around the corner. "Ah, you can let Dr. Watson in, please. I contacted him myself."  
John entered the room and it was as if an ice cold fist closed around his heart. Sherlock looked pale, small and broken in the clean white bed. His eyes were closed and different bruises and cuts were scattered over his face, a compress on his right cheek and one on his forehead. John let himself fall into the chair next to the bed, staring at Sherlock. He couldn't think of anything to do, all of his medical capacities gone as he felt lost sitting there.  
...  
There were no voices this time, when Sherlock slowly awoke. The intense pain throughout his body had been reduced to a dull ache. His right arm felt heavy and restricted, but remembering the agony when he had tried to use it, he thought that was probably for the best. His throat was still burning, but he decided to risk testing his vocal chords. He had meant to ask for water, in case anyone was within earshot. But what escaped, raspy and pained, was a name: "John..."  
John gently took Sherlock's left hand, careful as if it was made of a very fragile kind of glass. He hadn't really been able to make much of the cracked sound Sherlock had made, but it had sounded a bit like his name and at least it meant that Sherlock was perhaps returning to consciousness. "Shush," he said softly. "I'm here. And I promise everything will be alright. It has to be." He bit his lip.  
Sherlock knew John from the touch of his hand, before he even spoke. A sigh of relief escaped him and he tried to force his eyes open. Only one of them complied, but it was enough. John's face, lined with worry, was hovering over him. He tried to speak again. "I'm sorry..."  
"Sssh. Sleep. It's fine. I'm here. Nothing's going to happen to you now, I'm here." John very gently squeezed Sherlock's hand and bent to brush a light kiss on the battered cheek. He didn't even notice the tears rolling over his own cheeks, partly caused by relief and partly by worry.  
"Don't need sleep," Sherlock tried to answer. He did not want John to leave. He needed to tell him something, but even more importantly: he just needed him.  
Despite himself, a small smile broke through in John's expression. "Yes, you need to sleep, my idiot."  
Sherlock smiled. "Thank you. I love you too," he whispered, finding, to his great annoyance, that he was indeed drifting off again.  
John pressed the pale hand against his lips for a moment, and didn't let go of it as he put it back in place, even though it forced him to sit at an akward angle. He was reassured for now, but he avoided thinking too much, knowing that all wasn't over yet with Sherlock just waking up.  
When Sherlock woke up the next time, it was to the sound of a somewhat familiar voice rattling of facts.  
"He was very lucky," the man said. "It could easily have been a lot worse. As it is now, he's facing a fairly long recovery. His arm will take up to eight weeks to mend and his ribs will be bothering him for a long time. There's also the effects of the prolonged exposure before he was found. We have it under control for now, but he'll be at increased risk of pneumonia for some time. He's going to need a lot of care."  
Sherlock opened his eyes, one of them still seemed reluctant. A doctor was standing by his bed facing a relieved looking John and an infuriatingly composed Mycroft.  
"How nice of you to join us, brother dear," Sherlock rasped.  
The three men looked around, surprised to find him awake. John immediately smiled at him, Mycroft gave him an unimpressed look.  
"It would save me a lot of time if you would stop getting yourself into trouble all the time, little brother. You should listen a little more often to our, or should I say your, good doctor."  
"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock answered, almost fondly as he reached out a shaking left hand towards John. "And take the other good doctor with you, please."  
The doctor and Mycroft exchanged a look and left the room, leaving John with Sherlock.  
"Hey. How do you feel?" John asked, taking the shaking hand in both of his own.  
"Like hell," Sherlock answered honestly. "But I'm glad you are here."  
"You do look like you've been run over by a bus a couple of times," John said with a half smile that didn't quite work.  
"Yeah?" Sherlock too tried to smile. "You should see the other guy..."  
John huffed, then leaned forward to bury his face in the pillow, right next to Sherlock's shoulder. It was starting to smell a little more of Sherlock and a little less of hospital. "I was so worried," he said in a small voice.  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock bit back the many aches it brought on and turned his head towards John.  
John said nothing and just quietly kept their heads together for a while, enjoying the closeness, until his back started to protest and he sat up. He softly stroked Sherlock's cheek. "I love you."  
Sherlock sighed, putting his hand over John's. "I love you too."  
John wanted to ask what exactly had happened to Sherlock, but probably it was too early. It would take too much energy for Sherlock to tell the whole story now. "Get some rest," he said softly, kissing Sherlock's forehead.  
"Will you stay?" Sherlock asked, his eyes closing.  
"Of course," John said, shifting his chair a little closer to the bed.  
Already half asleep, Sherlock reached out his good hand, searching for John's.  
When he woke again, John's hand was still in his, but it was no longer gripping tightly. He could feel the weight of John's head on the bed and hear his heavy slow breaths, interspersed with those little endearing snores that Sherlock had grown quite fond of. He could smell John's breath and even feel it as a light cool breeze on the back of his hand. Having exhausted all the available information, Sherlock opened his good eye. John was sitting in the chair by the bed. He was leaning forward resting his head and chest on the mattress next to Sherlock. One hand rested in Sherlock's, the other was clenched in the sheet, signalling the worry that John still felt.  
Sherlock studied his face. Even in sleep there was obvious tension around the mouth and eyes. He had been worrying and was still feeling... What? Concerned? Angry? Sherlock could understand both.  
John must have been terribly worried about him. He felt guilt coursing through him at the thought of what he had put him through. From the reception the doctors had given him when he was brought in, he had been able to discern, even in his confused and concussed state, that they had initially considered his condition to be quite critical. He couldn't remember if Lestrade's showing up had been before or after they had him x-rayed and found the internal damage was minimal. What had John been told? He couldn't even bear to think about it.  
And the anger was even more understandable. Sherlock had been beating himself up all day about how he had acted that morning. It had been entirely his own fault. John had been ready to get started on the case, but Sherlock had not been able to resist teasing him, hoping for… Sherlock blushed. He had gotten a little more than he had bargained for, certainly, and it had been fantastic. But Sherlock had not been prepared for the blissful exhaustion that followed. When he woke up, he had been furious with himself, and more than a little embarrassed. And he had taken it out on John.  
He had barely made it to the street before realizing what he had done. He had turned on the stairs, ready to rush back up and make it up to John. But then he had realized that this too was a distraction and that the inevitable conversation that would follow, would have taken up even more of the time he did not have. It would have to wait. Perhaps when he had tracked down Harris and made a new plan, he could call John. Or at least text. But right then, he had to focus.  
Thinking back, Sherlock desperately wished he had made another decision. If he had gone back, none of this would have happened. They would have been at home now, together, sleeping in each other's arms or perhaps… He smiled and gently squeezed John's hand.


	17. Chapter 17

On the third day of Sherlock's stay in the hospital, which had mostly been spent sleeping, Mycroft came to visit again, Lestrade following him closely. "Hello, brother dear, feeling better? Good, then you should have a word with Detective Inspector Lestrade here. I'll be here listening, for safety reasons, of course," he said immediately in a smooth, business-like tone.  
Sherlock considered bestowing his usual greeting on his brother, but something about Mycroft’s presence intrigued him. "Right," he just mumbled. Best get this over with.

Mycroft quietly sat down next to a rather sleepy looking John, but Lestrade closed the door behind him and kept standing in front of the bed. "You do feel up to telling me everything, right, Sherlock?" he asked, looking from Mycroft to John and Sherlock with hesitation in his eyes.  
Sherlock nodded and reached for the ever-present glass of water. His throat was still sore, but speaking was tolerable.

"Alright. Can you tell me what exactly has happened? And where is Harris now? Take your time," Lestrade said, trying not to look too impatient.

Sherlock snorted. "He's probably home. He's gotten away with this kind of thing before, after all, so he'll most likely not even be worried." Then he sighed and tried to explain, leaving out the reason why he had not followed his original plan. "I first approached him at the shop, just to get a reading. Then after work, I followed him to the local pub, where I observed him getting inebriated and pestering a small group of women. When they left, he followed one of them, so I followed him. I lost sight of them however, and I was about to call John when he jumped me. Guess I wasn't as discrete as I thought." Sherlock smirked.

"You should have called me," John said quietly.  
"What is worse, is that Harris knew exactly where he would be safe from the CCTV footage," Mycroft said. "We've been looking, but otherwise it had been a lot simpler to find Sherlock. You should have minded where you were walking, Sherlock."  
Sherlock ignored Mycroft and turned to John. "I was trying to call you," he said. Then he frowned. "My phone must still be there. I lost it, but I remember hearing it before I was found."  
John took his hand again, giving a short nod.  
"Well, of course I certainly don't approve of the way in which it happened. But if Sherlock testifies against him, there should be more than enough proof against Harris, I think," Lestrade said.  
Sherlock smiled. "Once that's done, I'll see what I can do about getting in touch with his ex-wife."  
"But for now, you're going nowhere," John said firmly. "Doctor's orders."  
Sherlock smiled fondly at him. "Guess I don't really have a choice then, do I?"

"No."  
"Speaking of doctors. You can go home tonight, after a last examination," Mycroft told Sherlock, standing up.  
Sherlock looked at him, biting back a grateful remark. Then he turned back to John. "Ready to take care of me?" he asked. "I plan on being quite the baby for the next couple of weeks."

"Yeah, I know how you are," John rolled his eyes. "But it's my job, I guess."  
"Alright, John, good luck," Lestrade grinned.  
"We'll leave you to it," Mycroft nodded.  
-  
They were sent home with a mass of bandages, compresses and antiseptics. John slowly helped Sherlock up the stairs to their flat, then brought him to his bed to rest again. "I'll come to have a look at your wounds in a minute, I'll just put everything away first." He had hardly been home in the last few days.  
Sherlock made himself as comfortable as possible under the circumstances and waited for John, impatiently.  
After clearing everything away, John sat down on his knees on the bed, next to Sherlock. He dumped the compresses on the nightstand and gently began to loosen the old ones, looking at the colourful bruises on Sherlock's face. "Does it hurt?" he asked softly.

"Nothing I can't handle," Sherlock answered through clenched teeth.

John ran his finger along the edge of a cut, looking if it was healing well, before he cleansed and covered it again. "I'm glad I can still do this," he said quietly after a while.

"You're glad I'm hurt?" Sherlock asked, not quite masking the teasing tone of his voice.

"Shut up." John carefully poked his shoulder - it was more stroking, to be honest, but battered as he was, even light touches could hurt the detective. "You know exactly what I mean."

Sherlock winced a little at the touch. Then he smiled. "Yes, I know. I'm glad too."

"Never do that again," John said calmly while he straightened the tape that held the compress above Sherlock's brow.

Sherlock snorted. "Believe me, I did not plan this."

"No, of course not. You had probably never even thought of the possibility that anyone could get to you," John said with a sigh, starting to open Sherlock's shirt so he could change the bandages on his ribs. "Turn over a bit, please. Sorry. But what I mean is," he continued when he had Sherlock in a position where he could work with the bandages, "never leave me in the dark again. I thought everything was fine because you always ignored me. It wasn't safe. What if no-one had found you?" He swallowed, once again filled with fear at the thought.  
Sherlock bit his lip. He knew what John was asking, but once again he didn't know if it was a promise he could make. "I'll try..." he said.

"You'd better," John said, adjusting the last bits a bit too firmly.

"Ouch!" Sherlock pulled away. "No need to punish me in advance, you know."

John laughed. "Not so sure of that. Sorry." He bent to give Sherlock a light kiss and finished his work.

Sherlock chuckled and watched him. When he was done, he reached up and laid a hand on John's cheek. "I am so so sorry," he said, looking him in the eyes.

"I know," John sighed. He put everything on the bedside table and lay down on his back next to Sherlock, taking his hand.

"John?" Sherlock said after a while.

"Hmm?" John felt more relaxed than he had in days and had been drifting off, the lack of sleep beginning to take its toll.

"I'd really like to kiss you, but I'm afraid that if I move right now, something will hurt and it will distract me. And not in a good way." He laughed at his own helplessness. "Could you...?"

"Oh dear, and thus the ordering about has begun," John chuckled, pushing himself up on his elbow to lean over Sherlock. He gave him a soft kiss.

"You might as well get used to it. The demands will be endless," Sherlock smirked and then with his good hand pulled John down for a deeper kiss.  
John hummed and relaxed further. God, he had missed this. In the hospital it had been a few quick stolen kisses and small touches, and of course they couldn't go much further now, but it was a world of difference.

Sherlock sighed against John's lips and gently licked them. What he really wanted to do was throw the man down on his back and snog him till he couldn't breathe, but for now this would have to do.

They continued kissing for a long time before John carefully pulled back. "We should really get some sleep, love."

Sherlock groaned. "I've gotten enough sleep for the next month while I was in the hospital."

"I haven't," John said, arranging himself next to Sherlock again.  
Sherlock huffed. "Tedious," he commented, before wrapping his good arm around John, pulling him a little closer.  
"Hmm." John rested his face against Sherlock's shoulder, careful not to put too much pressure on his bruises. Then he remembered something important and opened his eyes again. "If you need anything tonight, wake me up, alright? Whatever it is. I don't want you to try and get up yourself. And I - don't want to wake up alone. Got that?"  
"I promise," Sherlock smiled. "Now, get some sleep."  
John nodded. "G'night."  
"Sleep well, love."  
John immediately let exhaustion take over, feeling safe now he was lying in Sherlock's arms again.


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock lay awake, his arm around John, his mind wandering, examining the events, or rather lack thereof, of the last days. Hospital had been a nightmare, the enforced inactivity, with not even snuggling with John as a means of distraction. But now they were home, he was not going to let him out of reach, before he himself was fully recovered. John would just have to live with being cuddled and kissed constantly or suffer Sherlock's boredom. He smiled to himself, knowing what John's choice would be.

After some hours of dreamless, good sleep, John suddenly woke up. He smiled as he saw Sherlock's face next to his. "Still awake?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling at John. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah." John shifted a little closer and shut his eyes again.

Sherlock snorted. "You're not going back to sleep are you?"

John groaned. "Anything you need?"

"Yeah." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You."

John opened his eyes again and looked at him, his expression soft but a little uncertain. "I'm still here while I'm sleeping?"

"Yes, well." Sherlock looked a little sheepish. "I'm getting quite bored..."

John sighed. "What do you want me to do? Shall I get you a book?"

Sherlock pouted. "I was hoping you'd keep me company for a while."

"Well, I'm here," John shrugged, snuggling back in his warm spot by Sherlock's side. "You can talk to me and as long as I'm awake I'll answer."

"Talk?" Sherlock pulled him a little closer.

"You're the one who was bored and had time to think of a subject. I was asleep, and grateful that there weren't any dreams to tell you about." John took a deep breath and felt happily drowsy in Sherlock's scent.

"We had plenty of time to talk in the hospital." Sherlock gave him a little squeeze. "I was kind of hoping we could catch up on some other stuff."

"You're hurt. You'll probably roll away in a ball if I even touch you," John mumbled.

"So, don't touch me where it hurts. I'm not asking for anything... much," Sherlock blushed. "I've just really missed being close to you."

"Me too. That's why I'm afraid I'd go too far," John said, before gently pressing his lips against Sherlock's.

Sherlock sighed into the kiss. "We'll be careful,” he muttered.

John gently cupped Sherlock's neck and licked slowly into his mouth.

Sherlock welcomed John's tongue and let his own entangle with it. He let out a small moan of relief. He had missed this so much.

John closed his eyes and sighed as the slow, dreamy kiss was all that filled his mind.

Sherlock too let himself get lost in the kiss, for a long time. When he needed to breathe, he pulled back a little. "I love you so much," he whispered.

John was panting and licked his lips, eyes wandering over Sherlock's face. "I love you too."

Sherlock smiled, then decided to address something that had been nagging at the back of his mind since they came home. "John," he said. "Will you promise me something?"

"Hmm, what?" John asked cautiously.

"We both know how I can get when I'm bored. I predict the next week or so is going to get really bad. I'll try to behave, but..." He frowned. "I need you to promise me, that if I go too far, you'll tell me. Don't let me get away with it."

John smiled softly and kissed him again. "I think I can easily promise that," he said as he pulled back.

Sherlock looked relieved. "Good," he said, smiling at John. "Now, if you're going to sleep some more, could you perhaps help me get set up on the sofa with some tea and my laptop?"

"Hmm, actually I'm not sure if I want to let go of you now," John smirked, softly running his fingertips over Sherlock's chest.

"Oh," Sherlock chuckled. "In that case, tea can wait I think."

John moved to sit astride Sherlock, without supporting any weight on the other man, and tangled his fingers in his hair, his mouth hovering millimetres over Sherlock's. Sherlock gasped softly and surged up to catch John's lips. John kissed him, a little more forcefully now, trying not to grind down on him. Instinctively Sherlock pushed a little up towards John, then groaned when his ribs protested.  
”Sorry," he whispered against John's lips. "You'll have to do most of the work here."  
John chuckled. "As usual."  
"Hey..." Sherlock looked indignant. "I seem to remember me being quite active on more than a few occasions."  
John grinned mischievously. "Remind me how you were ever active."  
Sherlock snorted. "You want me to go into details?”  
"Hmmm, yes?" John bent his head and started kissing his neck.  
"Well," Sherlock mused. "I seem to remember a time, where I quite actively helped entertain you while you were doing the dishes..."  
John chuckled and pulled a little back from his neck. "Being draped around me like a sloth while I'm doing something does not count as active."  
"I kissed you! Quite a lot," Sherlock pouted.  
John laughed and looked at him. "Shall I show you what being active means, or are you not up for it? You don't really have to move."  
"By all means," Sherlock replied. "Go for it."  
"Always the romantic," John grinned, as he sat down on his knees between Sherlock's legs and took his pants off.  
Sherlock's laughed and tried to lift his head to see what John was doing.  
"Keep down," John said, gently rubbing his hands over the top of Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock groaned a wordless complaint but settled back down. "Just enjoy it. I'll take care of myself later," John said softly as he let his hand wander to more interesting regions.  
Sherlock closed his eyes. "No," he muttered. "I'm sure there's something I can do..." The words trailed off into a soft moan.  
John teased him with his hand for a little longer, before he guided him into his mouth. Once again he let his tongue explore, enjoying the fact that he could taste Sherlock again after all those days. He gently pushed the other man's hips down, so he wouldn't overstretch himself, and started bobbing his head, his lips slowly moving over Sherlock's shaft.  
"Oh fuck...." Sherlock whispered through gritted teeth as he struggled to keep still.  
John pulled off for a second to let both of them catch their breath, and he looked at Sherlock, lying on his back, eyes closed. The detective looked vulnerable and beautiful and John couldn't help laying a possessive hand on his stomach. Mine, he thought fondly, taking him in his mouth again and sucking a little harder.  
It was more than Sherlock could take. The frustration and longing of the last few days had been building up inside of him, and he'd been close from the moment John touched him. As his muscles clenched his ribs ached dully, but he didn't care. Tearing at the sheets with his left hand, he moaned John's name and then collapsed, happy and pleasantly exhausted.  
John licked him clean, knowing how annoying Sherlock found it to be sticky, then crawled up to give him a tender, closed-mouthed kiss. "Not bored anymore, hmm?" he purred.  
"What would you do if I said that I was?" Sherlock murmured with a sleepy smile, his eyes closed.  
"Not believe you," John smirked. He kissed Sherlock's temple. "Do you mind if I finish things myself?"  
"Anything I can do to help?" Sherlock giggled lightly, still not opening his eyes.  
"You could talk," John said, blushing.  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and smiled. "Oh." He hesitated a little, then let his voice drop, to where it was almost a rumble. "I can do that..."  
John let out a very embarrassing whimper, closing his hand around his cock. He lay down on his side next to Sherlock and watched him as he stroked himself. "Sherlock..."  
"Oh, John." Sherlock said, his eyes still closed, his voice still deep. "When I get back on my feet, I'm going to come after you with a vengeance."  
"Keep talking," John panted, his hand speeding up.  
"It's really not fair," Sherlock said. "You being so close, touching yourself and all I can do is lie here..."  
John moaned and flicked his thumb over the head of his cock.  
"John," he said, drawing out the name, just a little. "All I want to do is touch you, feel you, make you mine..."  
"I'm yours," John whispered, eyes closed and his full attention on one part of his body. He rolled on his back, very close to coming, his back arched.  
"I know..." Sherlock kept the smugness out of his voice, but not off his face. It was quite thrilling to have this kind of effect on John he realised. Thrilling and more than a little arousing. There was a new aspect he would have to consider at some point. But not now. Right now all his senses were focused on John.  
John thrust up in his hand and his orgasm took over. "God, Sherlock."  
Sherlock trembled at the sight and sound of John. He had done this to him. "Oh God, I love you," he said, his voice back to its normal level.  
John was only able to pant and fumbled for some tissues. Once he had cleaned himself up a bit, he rolled on his side again, close to Sherlock, and kissed him.  
Sherlock returned the kiss eagerly, all drowsiness gone.  
"I love you too," John breathed after a while, nuzzling Sherlock's nose.  
Sherlock smiled and studied John. "That was... good," he concluded.  
"Glad you agree," John smiled back. He stroked Sherlock's cheek. "Do you want to get up now?"  
Sherlock considered. "Soon. Cuddle first."  
"Hmm, good." John curled against Sherlock and carefully laid an arm around him.


	19. Chapter 19

"John?" Even though Sherlock could hear the whining quality of his own voice, he just couldn't help it. He was bored, his arm was itching inside the cast and to make everything worse, the battery of his laptop had just died and he couldn't reach the charger. "John!" he called again. Where was he?  
"On my way!" John yelled, flushing the toilet. He had had exactly one minute and forty-five seconds of peace before Sherlock had called him again. Not that he was counting his moments of freedom. He didn't really have to count. The last week, he had had to be at Sherlock's side constantly. It wasn't that he didn't like to be there, but a disabled Sherlock was just as tiring as he had expected.  
The sound from the bathroom made Sherlock cringe. Had he known where John was, he would have waited. After all, what was the rush? It was not like he was going anywhere.  
"What's wrong?" John asked as he entered the living room.  
Sherlock wouldn't quite meet his eyes. "It's not important," he muttered. A heap of pillows was stacked between his back and the armrest of the sofa and he had stretched his legs before him.  
"Then why did you call?" John sighed, pushing Sherlock's feet out of the way so he could also sit on the sofa.  
Sherlock moved to make way, resisting, for now, the temptation to put his feet in John’s lap, hoping for a foot rub. "The battery died," he admitted. "I hadn't noticed it was running low, or I would have done something about it..." He let the sentence trail off. After all, they both knew that it wouldn't have been Sherlock doing anything, even if he had noticed earlier.  
"Ah. I'll charge it for you. Why do you let me sit down first, then?" John asked, slightly annoyed.  
Sherlock tried for cute: "Because as long as you're here, I don't need it."  
John huffed. "I'd say that you don't get it then, but probably you change your mind in ten seconds." He stood up and plugged in the laptop.  
Sherlock bit his lip. "I'm sorry," he muttered.  
"'s fine," John said, as he grumpily let himself fall back in the sofa.  
"I'm being a nightmare, right?"  
"Yeah, good deduction," John sighed.  
"So it's not fine. You promised to stop me before I got too bad," Sherlock scowled, feeling annoyed with himself.  
John slumped sideways against Sherlock's lower legs. "But I can understand why you are like this. I know being cooped up like this is hard for you."  
"That doesn't give me the right to drive you up the walls. Maybe you should go out. Go to the pub or something."  
"Hmm. I wouldn't be at ease. Either I come home and you've made the flat explode out of boredom, or you text after five minutes that I need to come back to... whatever your crazy ideas are at that moment."  
"I'm really that bad?" Sherlock sighed.  
John allowed himself a small smile at the sight of Sherlock's desperate expression. "Yeah."  
"All the more reason for you to get away for a while. Before you start hating me." He looked around. "Look, we can set it up, so I have everything I need within reach. I have power now, so I'll just need water, maybe some biscuits and a blanket if I want to sleep. I should be fine for a couple of hours."  
John rested his head on Sherlock's knees. "Part of me thinks it's a very good idea and part of me is offended that you want me away."  
Sherlock took his hand and gave it a little squeeze. "I don't want you to be away from me for even a second. But I also don't want you to start resenting me. And that's where we're heading."  
"You're not that bad," John said, pressing a kiss on his hand.  
Sherlock laughed as he used John's hand to pull him closer. "Oh yes, I am."  
John turned, put the laptop on the table and nudged Sherlock's legs apart so he could lean closer to him. He rested his hands on the pillows next to the other man's shoulders and kissed him. "There,” he said. “I think you can cope with that much resentment."  
"Yes, well, if we can keep it to those levels, I think I can manage," Sherlock replied with a smirk before leaning forward to kiss John back.  
John smiled and let his eyes wander over Sherlock's face. "You're infuriating," he decided.  
"I know," Sherlock chuckled. "So get the hell out of here."  
John chuckled, kissed him again and stood up. "No experiments," he warned while he got him a glass of water and a blanket.  
Sherlock pouted and then laughed. "I don't think I could perform an experiment even if I wanted to. Not many things I can do with only one hand working."  
"Yeah, that's why I feel so inclined to forbid you!" John took out his phone and texted Mike, if he was interested in going to the pub.  
Meanwhile Sherlock made a rather feeble one-handed attempt to get his laptop from the table. He suppressed the impulse to whine and just fixed John with a pair of puppy-dog eyes.  
John couldn't help a chuckle at Sherlock looking so helpless and gave him the laptop, ruffling his hair. "There you go."  
He looked gratefully up at John. "Thank you, love." Then he focused on the screen and got to work.  
"See you in a few hours," John said, dropping a kiss on the curls, but Sherlock's attention was already away from him.  
Sherlock didn't even notice that John left. Not until an hour later, when he had completed his research, harassed some of the more feeble users on several scientific forums and declined all prospective cases in his in-tray. Then he began to feel restless and bored. He picked up his new phone and toyed with the idea of texting John.

John felt the buzzing in his pocket and reached for his phone. "Excuse me a second," he told Mike. "Just need to check that Sherlock isn't blowing up the flat, or suddenly dying on purpose, just to get my attention." He wouldn’t be surprised. It actually was good to be away from his partner for a moment, as much as he loved him.  
The text simply said: 'Flat still here. I'm doing fine. Enjoy yourself.'  
Sherlock prided himself in being able to reach out to John without demands, only reassurances. But within five minutes he was fidgeting, positively aching with the need to call John and get him to come home now. The constant closeness and his own helplessness had apparently made him more needy than ever. He almost texted again, but resisted. Then an idea began to form.  
'Thanks,' John texted back. "Apparently I shouldn't worry so much," he smiled, relieved that Sherlock was doing well. He ordered a new pint for Mike and himself.  
Sherlock held out for another half hour before giving in, chuckling to himself as he dialled John's number. He waited for him to answer and then pitched his voice low, in just the right way. "John, love. I'm so sorry to disturb you. I just need to ask you a little favour..."  
John frowned at his phone. What the hell? "Er, yeah, I'm listening?" he said, his eyes shifting to Mike to make sure that he hadn't heard the strange tone Sherlock was using.  
"I don't want you to come rushing home now, but when you do come home, could you pick me up some chocolate on the way? I know it's silly, but I've just got this craving for chocolate... Maybe it's a blood sugar thing."  
"Sherlock, it's night. The shops are closed. I suppose I can find chocolate somewhere if you really want it, but... Are you sure you're okay?" John shrugged at Mike.  
"Yes, sorry. Forget it. I was just being silly. I was reading this article about the chemical composition of chocolate and how the phenylethylamine causes a release of endorphins, creating the illusion of being in love..." Sherlock closed his eyes and waited, hoping it had worked.  
John cleared his throat, trying not to let Sherlock's voice affect him the way it actually did. "Why do you need that? You already are in love," he smirked, trying to sound more smug than flustered.  
Mike gave him a questioning look and John suddenly realized that he hadn't told him that they were together now. Somehow it had seemed obvious from the way he had been talking about the detective - but then, to be honest, perhaps that wasn't so different from how it had been before.  
"As I said, I was just being silly. Don't worry about it. See you when you get home." Sherlock paused, and then added, drawing the last word out just a little bit: "I love you, John." He hung up.  
John cleared his throat again and put his phone away. "I should probably have told you that Sherlock and I are together now," he said to Mike, blushing, more because of the effect Sherlock’s talking had had than because of his confession.  
Mike smirked. "Really? Congratulations. Did you really need him to get hurt for that?" he asked with a playfully chastising look.  
"No, it's been a little longer actually." John shifted on his chair; it was as if the deep sounds were still vibrating under his skin. "I, er, shouldn't leave him alone for too long, you know." Somehow, that voice had triggered images in his head of Sherlock lying on the sofa, restless, welcoming John home with open arms, and then he would kiss down his neck and make that low sound down his throat...  
“Everything alright?” Mike’s voice immediately brought him back from his fantasy.  
“Yeah, sorry, I was just lost in thought for a moment. Shall we ask for the bill?”

Sherlock lay back on the sofa, his eyes still closed. Only time would tell if his plan had worked, but now he had that prospect before him, he found that he could relax. Might as well doze off for a while.  
John wondered if he shouldn’t feel a little pathetic. He had been in with his - boyfriend? – all week, taking care of him and hardly having a moment to himself, unless he escaped to the shop to get something for said boyfriend. Now he had finally had the chance to have a long night out, and Sherlock, surprisingly, had not even whined for him to come back; but one phone call, hearing the low voice, had made him change his mind. Why would a man of his age become this aroused by a voice? And a male voice, at that, while he had hardly ever been attracted to men before Sherlock. Still, he was almost home, and he couldn’t wait to see and, even more important, feel the other man.


	20. Chapter 20

"Sherlock?" John called as he came through the door. Then he saw how peacefully Sherlock was lying with his eyes closed and smiled. He went closer and readjusted the blanket. Sherlock just let out a little snore and snuggled further into the sofa. The doctor sat down on his knees in front of the sofa and softly kissed Sherlock's cheek. "Shouldn't we get you to bed, to spare your back?" he whispered.  
Sherlock opened his eyes, sleepily. "Oh, hi," he mumbled. "You're home."  
"Good observation," John smiled. He put an arm under Sherlock's shoulders to push him upright."Come on, let's go to bed."  
Sherlock looked at his phone and frowned. "You're home a lot earlier than I expected."  
"Yeah. You know. Guess I'm a bit overly worried about you after everything that happened."  
Sherlock smiled fondly. "I love you for that, but you really didn't have to."  
"You always love me, it's not for that," John smiled, pulling Sherlock on his feet. "Sorry if I smell of beer."  
Sherlock pulled him into a one-armed hug, burying his nose in John's hair. "You smell of you," he mumbled.  
"That's good, I guess. Will you move now? I am trying to take you to bed, you know."  
Sherlock giggled. "Well, how can I say no to that?"  
"Really, Sherlock." John couldn't suppress a smile. "I obviously meant that in the 'I'm not letting you fall asleep while you're standing'-way." He started guiding Sherlock to what had become their bedroom.  
"You really should choose your words more carefully, John." He was still a little sleepy and feeling very pleased that John was there, so he let his voice drop and linger on the last word.  
"Perhaps you should pay attention to the way you are saying things," John muttered, before lowering him on the bed.  
"I'll keep that in mind." His voice was still a little sleepy, but it was getting there.  
"Yes, great, I'll, er, have a shower before I come to bed," John said, turning to go to the bathroom.  
"Hurry," Sherlock murmured as he rolled over on his side.  
"Why?" John smirked.  
"Bed gets cold without you."  
"I'll be quick then." John hesitated for a moment - if he didn't ask, he couldn't know. "Are you - will you be asleep when I come back?"  
Sherlock turned his head and looked at him. "I can stay awake if you want me to."  
"I... just need to know if I have to take care of things under the shower," John said awkwardly.  
"Oh," Sherlock’s eyes widened a little. "Well, if that's what you prefer..."  
"Sherlock," John said, a bit annoyed. "I'm asking you a question, I'm certainly not stating a preference like you very well know. Now do you need sleep or not?"  
Sherlock bit his lip. "I'm sorry," he said. "I was only teasing. I guess I just wanted you to say it... That you want me. Even though I'm being such a pain these days."  
John stepped back to the bed and kissed him. "I wish I didn't have to be gentle with you," he said, his voice low, then he disappeared to the bathroom.  
The words sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine and he felt colour rising to his cheeks, as he lay waiting for John to return.  
Five minutes later John was back, clean and naked, and he slipped under the blankets.  
Sherlock lay on his back, his bad arm resting on a pillow next to him. He wrapped his other arm around John and pulled him over, so he was lying half on top of him. "Took you long enough," he said with a sly grin.  
John didn't answer but attacked his lips. Sherlock moaned and moved his hand to the back of John's head as if to keep him as close as possible, returning the kiss eagerly. John let out a groan and bit Sherlock's bottom lip, drawing it out a little.  
With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock tangled his fingers in John's hair and pulled him back. "This is 'gentle'?" he gasped, laughing.  
"Gentle enough not to hurt your arm or ribs," John said roughly. "I want you."  
"Good." It was almost a growl. Then he pulled John back for a ferocious kiss. John also buried his hands in Sherlock's hair and pushed his hips down, hungrily kissing back. Sherlock moved his hand down, stroking the shorter man’s neck and then his shoulder, before sliding down his back.  
John moaned softly, pulling back for air.  
Sherlock rested his hand low on John's back, pushing him a little closer. "So," he said, trying to catch his breath. "How do you want to do this?"  
John rubbed his scalp, feeling a little more gentle. "Tell me what you want," he whispered, rolling his hips.  
"Oh, God." Sherlock drew in a deep breath. "I just want to feel you. Every inch of you. And to hell with my injuries..."  
John swallowed and kissed Sherlock's neck. "Even inside you?" he asked, his voice trembling with arousal at the thought.  
Sherlock nodded pulling John even tighter. "Yes," he whispered, his lips brushing John's ear. "I want you inside me."  
John shivered and gently bit his neck. "We need lube. And you have to be naked. Now."  
Sherlock laughed, feeling more than a little flustered, but also incredibly turned on by John's urgency. "Not much I can do, I'm afraid," he said, nodding towards the cast on his right arm.  
John bit his neck again in frustration, then sat up, making short work of Sherlock's pyjamas. He opened the drawer of the nightstand for a bottle of lube, but then he paused, kissing Sherlock's stomach. "Okay?"  
"Yes," Sherlock hesitated. "It's just... I've only ever done this once before and... It was a very long time ago..." He bit his lip, and glanced at John.  
"We don't have to do this now," John said, stroking his fingertips in circles over Sherlock's chest. "Only if you're ready."  
"No," Sherlock said. "I mean yes... I want to. I am ready. Just..." He smiled and laughed weakly. "You know..."  
John cupped his neck and kissed him softly. "I'll be gentle. And we'll go one step at a time, and you can always tell me if it's too much."  
Sherlock kissed him back. "I trust you."  
John brushed his palm over Sherlock's cock, nipping at his jaw. "I love you."  
Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled. "I know."  
John sat up again and pressed some lube on the fingers of his left hand. He pressed his middle finger between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse, gently teasing, but not yet breaching. Sherlock squirmed a little at the unfamiliar sensation, before he slowly relaxed. John gently pushed a little further, just stroking him lightly. He bent down and nuzzled Sherlock's hip.  
Sherlock moaned and moved a little against John's finger, testing. "Go on," he whispered.  
John nodded and pushed in, then held still so Sherlock could get used to the feeling. "Okay?"  
Sherlock hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. John softly kissed his hip bone, while pulling his finger a little out and then pushing further.  
Sherlock gasped. "That feels so good, John."  
Relief and arousal flowed straight to John's cock. "Glad to hear that." He gave himself a few light strokes and pushed his finger completely in, once again waiting a moment for Sherlock.  
Soon, Sherlock gently rocked his hips. "Please, John," he whispered. "Don't stop."  
John smiled and started moving his finger. "Do you want more?" he asked after a little while.  
Sherlock moaned again, "Yes," he said, his eyes still closed, his fingers clutching at the sheet.  
John slowly pulled out his finger, took more lube and pushed in two. "You look gorgeous."  
Sherlock's breath was a mixed gasp and laugh. "Thank you..." The words trailed off into a loud groan.  
John scissored his fingers a little, before pushing further again and experimentally touching for his prostate. Instantly Sherlock's hips bucked up, the pain in his sore ribs making him gasp.  
"You like that?" John asked breathlessly.  
"Oh, God yes. John. That's amazing." Sherlock fought to keep still but it was no use. It was just too intense and his body couldn't help but respond.  
John kissed from his hip to the middle of his lower stomach, his fingers moving inside Sherlock to prepare him. "Tell me when you're ready."  
Sherlock nodded. "Now, I think." He bit his lip to try and control his ragged breathing.  
"Sure?" John asked, but he was too eager to tease him any longer and slowly pulled back his fingers.  
Sherlock nodded more vigorously and whimpered at the sense of loss. John kneeled over him and kissed him, moving down so their cocks brushed against each other. "God, Sherlock..." He lined up against his hole and looked him in the eyes before he started to push in.  
Sherlock held John's eyes, his mouth slightly open, his eyebrows raised so high they almost disappeared into the curls. This was nothing like the vague memory he had. Nothing like he had expected. This was John, and nothing had ever felt so right.  
John groaned and his face crumpled with pleasure as his cock slid further into the hot tightness. "Fuck," he cursed breathlessly.  
Sherlock reached up and put his hand on John's shoulder, caressing his neck with his fingers. "John," he moaned. "Oh God, John."  
"I'm not hurting you, am I?" John panted. He wanted to move, oh god, but he couldn't as long as he wasn't sure that Sherlock was alright.  
"No," Sherlock closed his eyes and rolled his hips slowly. "It's fine. It's amazing,"  
"God, it is," John said. He pulled a little back and thrust in again. "You feel so good."  
"You too." Sherlock threw his head back and groaned, moving to meet John's thrusts.  
John started kissing and sucking his neck, thrusting faster and moaning. They found a rhythm and soon the world was just him and Sherlock, and it was absolutely brilliant.  
Sherlock too was losing himself in the motion and sensations. With his hand on John's cheek, he urged his head up so he could catch his lips in a desperate kiss.  
John groaned and sucked on his tongue. "I'm not going to last long," he breathed as they broke apart.  
"It's okay," Sherlock gasped. "Touch me? Please?"  
"Oh, I'm so sorry." John had been so wrapped up in pleasure that he had completely forgotten that he could actually do something. He reached between them and started stroking Sherlock in the rhythm of his thrusts.  
Sherlock almost laughed. "Sorry? No need to apolo..." the word turned into a groan, as he suddenly found himself on the brink. He clutched at John's shoulder.  
John caught his lips again and his last few thrusts were more ferocious before he came, buried deep inside Sherlock and with his face pressed into the other man's neck. He kept stroking Sherlock's cock, trying to catch his breath as pleasure still waved through his body.  
"Oh God," Sherlock gasped as he came, his body shaking beneath John. "Fuck..."  
John cupped his face and kissed him gently. "God, I love you."  
"I love you too," Sherlock murmured, brushing John's back gently with his fingertips.  
John kissed his neck and slowly pulled out. "Wow."  
Sherlock let out a small laugh. "Wow," he agreed.  
John started giggling, holding Sherlock tight. "I should probably get something to clean us up," he said after his laughter had stopped, but he still felt extremely happy.  
"No need to hurry," Sherlock mumbled holding on to John. "Stay a little longer."  
"Gladly," John smiled, snuggling into Sherlock's shoulder. "Won't you feel sticky?"  
"I really don't care right now."  
John smiled and closed his eyes.


	21. Chapter 21

"John?" Sherlock moaned. He poked his shoulder. "John. Wake up, John."  
John groaned and blinked sleepily. "Whuh?"  
"I appreciate that you're probably worn out and everything, but if I don't get a shower soon, I think I'm going to go insane."  
John reluctantly pushed himself up on an elbow and looked at the clock. "Why don't you sleep?" he mumbled.  
"I did... briefly, but this is getting uncomfortable." He squirmed and awkwardly tried to sit up, then winced. "Ouch."  
That woke John up a bit. "Sorry. Alright, let me help you to the shower." He stepped out of the bed and went over to Sherlock's side.  
Sherlock had flopped back down and lay very still. "Just give me a second," he murmured.  
John frowned, a bit worried. "Are you alright?"  
Sherlock grinned at him. "Yeah," he said. "Just a little sore."  
"Sorry," John said, feeling a blush creep to his cheeks. "If it's any consolation, I did enjoy it very much."   
Sherlock smiled and reached for his hand. "So did I. More than anticipated actually."  
John grinned smugly and carefully pulled him up. "Very good to know."  
Sherlock groaned as he got to his feet. "Guess I just forgot about this part..." Then he pulled John close and kissed him on the forehead. "But it was worth it."  
John reached up to kiss his lips. "Perhaps it gets better after a while. If you get used to it." He turned even redder as he realized how that sounded.  
Sherlock laughed at him. "Oh, and I suppose you'd like to help me with that?"  
"Well," John said with an apologetic shrug, smiling. "Come on, you said you would go crazy without a shower and I don't need you to be any madder than you already are."  
"Thank you," Sherlock said, smirking.  
Once under the shower, the cast on Sherlock's arm protected, John pulled Sherlock into his arms for a hug, still feeling rather sleepy.  
"Tired?" Sherlock asked.  
"Mhm, I was sleeping rather well," John said with a relaxed smile.  
"I'm sorry I woke you then," Sherlock bent down and kissed the corner of his mouth.  
"Hmm, don't be. This is nice, too." He put a hand at the back of Sherlock's neck and kissed him deeply. Sherlock wrapped his arm around him and pulled him closer with a small grunt of agreement. John only pulled back when they were both breathless.  
"Want to go back to bed?" Sherlock asked, gasping slightly.  
"Yeah," John said, trailing his fingertips along the side of Sherlock's neck.  
"To sleep," Sherlock added, giving him a quick kiss.  
John smiled. "Agreed." He still felt sated from earlier, even though the kiss could easily have turned into more if Sherlock had insisted. For now he was perfectly happy with a cuddle and falling asleep again.  
…  
The next morning, Sherlock was in a better mood than he had been for a long time. Not only had the sex been extremely satisfying, but his little ploy for getting John to come home had been surprisingly effective. This opened up a range of new possibilities for how to request John's help, without making him irritable. But Sherlock would probably have to be careful how he deployed it or it would lose some of its efficiency or, even worse, John would see through it. As he lay in bed, John's head resting on his chest, his fingers playing with the soft blond hair, Sherlock chuckled happily.  
"What's so funny?" John asked, smiling and without moving from Sherlock's chest.  
"You're awake?" Sherlock asked, a bit surprised he hadn't noticed the change in breathing pattern. But then again, he had been quite lost in thoughts. He quickly added: "Nothing funny. I'm just happy."  
John hummed, lazily stroking Sherlock's shoulder. "Me too. I want to be woken up by your laughter more often." He pushed himself up for a kiss.  
Sherlock happily obliged, his fingers still tangling in John's hair.  
"Shall we get up, or do you want to stay a little longer?" John asked as he pulled back.  
"I'm in no hurry," Sherlock said, with a lazy smile.  
John contently snuggled into his neck again. "Still sore?" he asked after a while, a little worried.  
Sherlock shifted a little, testing. "It's better, but I can still feel it..." Then he grinned teasingly. "Why do you ask?"  
"Because I don't want you to be in pain," John answered, sleepily oblivious.  
Sherlock laughed again. "You're so good to me," he smirked and kissed John again. John kissed him back, taking his time. When they finally broke apart, Sherlock said: "If you promise a morning snog like that, I'll do my best to wake you with laughter every morning."  
John smiled, his eyes sparkling. "Deal."  
Sherlock grinned happily and gave him one more quick kiss. "So," he said. "What are your plans for today?"  
John shrugged. "Trying to keep you from dying of boredom, as usual?"  
"Sounds like a busy day," Sherlock laughed. Then he added: "I was actually hoping my doctor would consider me well enough to get outside for once."  
John looked at him, hesitating. "For a short walk, perhaps, and only if you tell me when your body starts to hurt. You really need to give yourself time to heal, Sherlock." He gently ran a hand along the detective's ribs.  
"I promise," Sherlock said. "But what's the point in my body healing if I lose my mind in the process?"  
John chuckled. "You'll be fine." He kissed Sherlock's lips, then got up to get dressed.  
Sherlock rolled over on his left side, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and carefully pushed himself up, with only a small grunt. "Of course I will," he said.  
John took his hand and pulled him to his feet, trying not to get distracted by Sherlock's body. He threw some clothes on the bed for the other man. "There, try to put those on. Call me if your arm gets stuck or something, I'm going to make breakfast." John had the feeling he it would be better to give Sherlock some space to try basic things like getting dressed himself, so he wouldn't irritate him too much.  
Sherlock gave it his best go, but had to call for John's help with the shirt and socks. He did, however, make sure to repay him with a long tender kiss. John hummed as he stood leaning over Sherlock, their lips locked. At least Sherlock was remembering to be grateful again, and somehow that made a lot of difference compared to the last few days. "Come on, let's go eat something, before we went through all this trouble just to have me ripping your clothes off again," he whispered, smirking.  
Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, we can't have that," he agreed.  
…  
After breakfast, Sherlock didn't even give John the chance to do the dishes; he had to get out of the flat right now. John fastened his coat and scarf for him (not without pulling him down for another kiss) and the cold air hit them as they stepped out of the door.  
As soon as he was out the door, Sherlock drew a deep breath. "Oh, the smell of freedom," he exclaimed.  
John chuckled. "Where do you want to go?"  
"I really don't care, as long as it's outside," Sherlock said, resting his left arm on John's shoulders and planting a kiss on top of his head. He felt positively giddy and foolishly romantic. "Perfect day to be in love, isn't it?"  
"O-kay, I'm not sure fresh air is very healthy for you," John said, looking up with an incredulous expression, but with laughter in his eyes. "Let's go to the park then, if you want to act like an actual couple."  
Sherlock smiled down at him. "We are an actual couple. Are we not?" He hadn't really thought about it quite like that before.  
"Of course," John smiled, putting a gloved hand on Sherlock's cheek. "But not a normal one." He grinned.  
"Never said we were," Sherlock replied, leaning into the touch with a fond smile. "That would be boring."  
John gave him a quick kiss, beaming, then started walking. "What do we call each other though?" he asked. "I never know whether I should think of you as my boyfriend or partner or whatever."  
Sherlock considered. "I honestly don't know. Never given it any thought."  
"Good to know that the man who shares my bed never spares me any thought," John smirked, flinging his arm around Sherlock's waist to give him more support.  
"Oh, I spare you many thoughts," Sherlock said with a wicked grin. "But none of the things I call you in those, should be uttered in public."  
"Hmmm, that sounds like you should tell me about them tonight," John said, grinning back.  
"You wish," Sherlock replied with a smirk.  
"That's not fair, I also told you what I wanted last night!" John protested as they entered the park.  
"Good point," Sherlock said. Then he bent down and whispered, his lips brushing John's ear. "The word that is most often in my mind when I think of you, is quite simply: mine."  
John didn't think of being in public and turned Sherlock's face to him with a hand on his neck, closed his eyes and kissed him.  
"Oh," a familiar voice said behind him, a little shakily. "I didn't think - I saw you two and just wanted to come and say hi - it's my day off - I'm sorry -"  
Recognising the voice, Sherlock let out a small sigh against John's lips. “Oops,” he whispered, before pulling back and with something nearly resembling his usual smile said. "Hi, Molly. Fancy meeting you here."  
Molly bit her lip, apparently wondering if there was a subtle way of running away from there very fast. "I didn't know you two were together," she gasped out eventually.  
"Er, we were going to tell you, but then Sherlock got hurt. You probably heard about it?" John said, remembering a little too late to turn around completely so he wasn't still standing half against Sherlock.  
Sherlock kept his arm around John's shoulder. "Yes," he said, clearing his throat. "It's still quite new. Even to us." He gave John's shoulder a tiny squeeze.

John looked up at him with a small smile.  
"Well, I'll leave you two alone then. Sorry for disturbing you and - and congratulations." Molly looked a bit shocked. After two steps she stopped and turned again. "You always said you weren't gay!" she said to John, almost accusingly.  
Sherlock tried to repress a snort. He turned to John and said: "Yes, dear. What happened to that?"  
John glared at him. "I was wrong. I just hadn't fallen for any men before."  
Sherlock's playful smirk turned into a genuine smile. He leaned in and gave him a soft brief kiss.  
At that, Molly really ran, or at least walked away very quickly.  
Sherlock looked after her. "That went well," he commented dryly.  
"Hmm. I think you'd better not need any corpses in the very near future," John said, leaning back against Sherlock.  
Sherlock laughed. "Well, it's worth it I suppose. I'd rather have your warm body than anything she has to offer."  
John pulled a face. "I don't really know how to feel about that phrase - probably flattered," he chuckled.  
"Oh, believe me, you should be," Sherlock said, bending down to kiss his neck.  
"Shall we go home?" John asked.  
Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Yes," he said. "Back to the cell."  
"We can come back tomorrow, I just don't want you to overdo things," John said with a gentle squeeze to Sherlock's hand.  
"I know," Sherlock said, smiling fondly. He took John's hand in his and set off for the gates at a much slower pace than usual.  
"Perhaps we can play a game or something, to make you a little less bored at home," John suggested.  
"Cluedo?"  
"Er... Only if there's really nothing else you want to do and if you don't get too dramatic," John said, still remembering the one time they had played it. He certainly didn't need Sherlock in that mood.  
"I wasn't being dramatic. I was merely being logical. That's the purpose of the game, is it not?" Sherlock said defensively. "But if you don't want to, I'm sure we can think of something else."  
"Yeah, something else, I'm not having this discussion again," John said decisively.  
"I don't really know any other games," Sherlock frowned. "What would you suggest?"  
John shrugged. "Chess? Go? Poker?"  
"Poker?" Sherlock considered. "That's about playing the odds as well as reading your opponent." He smiled. "Yes, we could do that."  
"Okay," John smiled. "But no rants if you lose."  
"I'll do my best," Sherlock said with a laugh.  
"Be prepared, I used to be very good in my day," John smirked.


	22. Chapter 22

Once home, John helped Sherlock out of his coat, put the kettle on and found the cards. "Have you played it before?" he asked.  
"Once," Sherlock replied. "For a case. But the whole place erupted into chaos before we could finish the fifth hand, and I never got to collect my winnings." He smiled at the memory. Then he picked up the cards and started shuffling them.  
John smirked as he watched the quick movements of Sherlock's long fingers. Of course he'd make a show of shuffling the cards, even with one arm in a plaster cast.  
"Texas Hold'em?" Sherlock asked, casually.  
John nodded. "Shame you can't undress yourself though, it would make the stakes a little more interesting," he grinned.  
Sherlock frowned.  
John stared at him. "You don't know strip poker?"  
Sherlock blushed and tried to look superior. "Apparently not," he said.  
"It's hardly difficult to understand the rules," John said with a very Sherlocky, haughty air.  
Sherlock glared at him. "By all means," he said, matching John's tone. "Enlighten me."  
John smirked. "You lose a hand, you lose an article of clothing, obviously."  
Sherlock's blush deepened. "Oh," he said. Then his expression changed into a teasing smile. "A little pointless, isn't it?"  
John shrugged. "Can be quite amusing though. I can always help you with undressing?"  
"But we wouldn't need cards for that, would we? I'm quite certain I could find other, more efficient ways of convincing you to undress..." Sherlock stopped himself.  
"We could always change games of course," John said, pulling up his eyebrows questioningly.  
"What did you have in mind?"  
"You just test your ways of convincing me to get off my clothes, and if you win, you can do to me what you like."  
Sherlock was, for once, genuinely surprised at the suggestion. And more than a little intrigued. But he also feared that in order to win this, he might have to reveal his new favourite game with John. The prospect was just too enticing to pass up though. "How could I say no to that?"  
John smirked and leaned back in his chair. Knowing that it was a game, he was quite confident that he would be able to resist Sherlock for some time, and even if he didn't, it wouldn't really be losing. "Let the game begin."  
"Any rules you want to lay down first?" Sherlock asked, looking at him from head to toe, as if already seeing the inevitable result before him.  
John thought for a moment and shrugged. "Can't really think of anything... I could say that you can't start ripping my clothes off just like that, but that would never be your style, so..."  
"Can't do much ripping anyway," Sherlock said, glancing at the cast. Then he got up and went over to stand in front of John. "Anything else is fair game?"  
"Hmm. Perhaps no touching at all in round one," John said thoughtfully. "Rounds of five minutes each, I'd suggest. Anything you want to add? I suppose I can't walk away, that wouldn't be fair either. But can I comment on what you say, for example, or do I just sit here and undergo your attempts?"  
"Oh, you can do whatever you want. Only, if you want a time restriction on the rounds, I need to know how many rounds I get." Sherlock knew he might be cheating a little already, but he just couldn't help letting his eyes run all over John's body in anticipation.  
John shrugged. "As many as you need. We both know that you will win at one point; the question will be how long it will take you. I'd be surprised if we sit here all day."  
"So would I." Sherlock smiled and cocked his head. "Could you stand up?"  
John frowned but obeyed. "That means your time starts now. No touching in first round," he repeated.  
"Of course," Sherlock smiled. "Step away from the chair please."  
"Sure." John wondered where this was going.  
Slowly Sherlock walked to stand behind John, close but not touching. As he spoke, he made sure to angle his head, so John would feel his breath on his neck. "I just want to look at you," he whispered.  
"Have fun," John said, calmly standing still - perhaps a little calmer than he actually felt, exciting as the idea of their game was.  
"Oh, believe me, I will," Sherlock said with a smirk and then let out a breath almost like a sigh. Then he took a step so he was standing beside John, still facing him. He leaned in close, and whispered directly in his ear. "You are beautiful."  
"Thank you," John answered, meeting Sherlock's gaze, almost challenging.  
Sherlock looked him in the eyes. "I can never get enough of looking at you." He smiled and then moved on to stand in front of John.  
"Yes, you can. You'll get bored within minutes, just watching."  
"Maybe, but since it's all I can do right now, how about giving me a little more to look at?" Sherlock winked and laughed.  
John snorted. "That would be pathetic, if it were that easy."  
"I'm not asking you to strip, John, just give me something. Anything." Sherlock brought out the puppy eyes, trying very hard not to laugh, since he quite agreed with John's assessment of the attempt.  
"No," John said firmly, also trying to hold back his laughter at the whole situation.  
Sherlock smiled. "Well, I guess I'll just have to imagine it then." He let his eyes slide slowly down John's body, raising an appreciative eyebrow. "Hmm," he said teasingly. "Might even be better than the real thing."  
"Is that an insult?" John asked with a playful frown.  
"Well, I do have to rely on memory here, and seeing as I'm quite besotted, my mind may be playing tricks on me."  
John smirked. "Yeah, because of course your memory is awful."  
"It has been known to fail me."  
"Why don't you describe what you're imagining then?" John asked, amused.  
Sherlock smiled. "Soft skin, strong chest, cute little stomach," he paused. "Am I close?"  
"Cute little stomach?" John repeated, bursting out in laughter. "Really Sherlock, this isn't going to work. Perhaps I should put on an extra jumper."  
Sherlock laughed as well. "Oh, but it is cute, John. Sorry I called it little. Didn't mean to offend you."  
"Cute isn't going to get you there either. Round one is being a bit of a failure, to be honest!"  
Sherlock laughed. "Wouldn't want it to be over too quickly now, would we?"  
"No, certainly not, I'm enjoying myself," John grinned.  
"Believe it or not: so am I. And after all," he said, keeping a very straight face, "it is kind of nice to see you keep your clothes on for a change."  
John chuckled. "I'll do that more often, then?"  
"If you can."  
"We can even have sex while I'm dressed, if you like that. But not in this game."  
"Interesting." Sherlock's eyebrow shot upwards. "I'll keep that one in mind."  
John smiled. "Round 2," he announced.  
Sherlock sighed in relief. "What are the rules for this one?"  
"Make it interesting," John shrugged. "Same as last one, but you're allowed small touches, perhaps?"  
"Small?" Sherlock whined, but his eyes were sparkling.  
"Yeah," John said smugly.  
"Do kisses count as small?" Sherlock said hopefully.  
"If they're small kisses."  
"Thank you," Sherlock cried, rushing forward and placing a series of small quick kisses on John's lips, cheeks, forehead and nose.  
John giggled and quietly let Sherlock attack him.  
Finally the detective stopped and let out a long shuddering sigh. "Okay, now that I've got that out of my system, let's get to work, shall we?"  
John looked at him with a smile. "I'm intrigued. Shouldn't you sit, though? To save your energy a bit?" Even now he couldn't switch off his doctor mode completely.  
"Quite right." Sherlock retreated and sat down in a chair facing John. "But then I'll need you to come a little closer."  
John got himself a chair and sat down in front of him, their knees almost touching.  
Sherlock reached out a hand and rested it on John's knee lightly. "Is this okay?" he asked.  
"Yes, of course. A hand isn't suddenly going to make my trousers vaporize into nothing."  
"I hope not," Sherlock said and started sliding his fingertips back and forth over the fabric.  
"Would be funny though," John grinned. The caress was nice, but nothing that would make him too aroused.  
"I don't know, I'm quite liking this texture," Sherlock said, seeming a little distracted by the sensation.  
"That's good," John smiled, sitting back a bit more comfortably.  
"Very," Sherlock agreed, but then tore himself loose. "Another thing to save for later, I'm afraid." He leaned back and looked at John for a moment. Then he reached up and opened the top button of his own shirt.  
"Ah, things are getting more interesting for me."  
Sherlock just smiled and then reached out for John's hand.  
"Or not," John smiled, tickling Sherlock's hand a little with his fingertips.  
Sherlock turned John's hand in his, so he could trace small circles in his palm. He watched their hands with a small smile.  
"You're not very aggressive," John remarked.  
"I'm not exactly in a hurry," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Are you?"  
"No, not at all. I'm just surprised, I know your patience."  
"I'm only impatient when I'm bored."  
John smiled. "That's far more flattering than talking about cute little stomachs, I must say."  
"Oh, but I still think it is, and at some point tonight I'm going to snuggle up to it and cover it in kisses."  
"I hope you like the taste of wool, then."  
"Oh, I doubt it will get to that."  
"Depends on the round you plan stomach-kissing in, I guess," John said.  
"Oh, I think I'll save that for the endgame."  
"Hmm, I'd hope you'll kiss other bits than my stomach by then."  
"That will be entirely up to you, I suppose."  
"Not really, I can't make you do things," John answered.  
"Oh," Sherlock said with a teasing smile. "I'll probably kiss any part of you I can get at, but in my current condition, I will have to wait for you to come to me."  
"Hmm, interesting," John smirked. "Time for the next round?"  
"If you say so," Sherlock shrugged, taking his hand away from John's. "Rules?"  
John thought for a moment. "You can touch and kiss me, but not lower than my chest."  
Sherlock beamed at him. "Get over here then." He patted his knee, beckoning him with a nod.  
John decided to obey, even though he expected that it was a bad idea for his own chances.  
Once John was settled on his lap, Sherlock pulled him down for a long slow kiss.  
John hummed, but caught Sherlock's hand when it went lower than his shoulder blades. "Stick to the rules, love. The only reason your leg doesn't count is that you're functioning as a chair now, but one wrong move and we're back to the rules of round one."  
"Sorry, love," Sherlock purred, and he placed his hand on the back of John's neck instead, stroking the skin just below the hairline with his thumb. Still holding him close, he began kissing his neck, working his way down from behind the ear. When he reached the shoulder he sighed, gave the jumper an exasperated look and then leaned back in the chair with a slight frown.  
John smirked. "See something that bothers you?" He softly kissed Sherlock's lips again.  
"A lot of things," Sherlock replied. "But I can't really do anything about it."  
"No, and you'd lose if you tried, I think."  
"Precisely." Sherlock took John's hand. "I'll just have to think of something else." He brought the hand to his lips and kissed the palm softly.  
John smiled. "I love you."  
"I love you too," Sherlock murmured as he moved on to John's fingers, kissing them and nibbling gently at the tips.  
John's breath hitched, but he immediately tried to even it out again. Sherlock suppressed a smile, as he started sucking on the fingertips, one by one, taking his time, letting his tongue tease them just a little.  
John hummed. This was the sort of inspiration he had hoped the game would bring to Sherlock.  
Sherlock found he was enjoying this thoroughly. He closed his eyes and focused all his attention on John's fingers. John tangled his other hand in Sherlock's hair, softly scratching his scalp.  
Sherlock hummed and leaned into the touch, then he took two of John's fingers in his mouth and sucked them in as far as he could, letting his tongue slide around and between them. John closed his eyes, as his body was reacting far too enthusiastically to the sight.  
With a soft moan, Sherlock released the fingers, and pulled John in abruptly, pressing their lips together, his tongue snaking its way into John's mouth. John sighed and welcomed Sherlock's tongue, caressing it with his own as he pressed himself closer to Sherlock. Sherlock let his fingers slide down into John's jumper, enjoying the warmth of the frustratingly small amount of skin he could reach. He pitched his voice just a little low as he murmured John's name.  
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and nuzzled his cheek. The other man moved his attention to John's earlobe, first kissing it, then taking it between his lips and sucking lightly. John gently stroked his neck, letting out a small moan. Encouraged by the sound, Sherlock gave the ear a small bite before letting it go and nudging John's head so he could get at the other one.  
John willingly moved his head. A vague thought in the back of his head said that time was probably running out for this round, but if he was honest he couldn't care less about the game.  
Sherlock moved his hand to John's shoulder, massaging it lightly, still nibbling and sucking on his ear, with a small mischievous smile. John tilted his head further, offering his neck. Sherlock happily obliged kissing his way downwards. His hand kept working John's shoulder, his fingers searching out any tension and doing their best to ease it.  
John groaned. "You really have to give me a proper massage at some point. When you can use both your hands again."  
"Certainly," Sherlock muttered, his lips brushing against John's neck. He moved his hand to the other shoulder and started working on it.  
John closed his eyes and sighed. "Actually we're in the next round," he muttered.  
"Oh," Sherlock smiled. "Rules?"  
"Touch anything except crotch and arse," John said quickly.  
"Tease." He chuckled and moved his hand down John's back.  
"Says who?" John retorted with a smirk.  
"Says the man who loves you and wants you desperately," Sherlock replied, finally giving in and letting his voice drop. He grabbed John's jumper and pulled it up, just enough to get his hand under it.  
John gasped. "You're still losing if you're the one undressing me." He couldn't resist pressing his nose against Sherlock's neck though. "I love you too. And I should probably not admit that I want you too."  
"I'm not undressing you, but you didn't say anything about me getting under your clothes." Sherlock kept his voice low and was drawing out some of the words. He nuzzled John's neck, as he let his hand explore eagerly.  
"Fair point," John muttered. He simply couldn't complain at that and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck.  
"Only one problem," Sherlock commented, having worked his hand up to John's shoulder blades, sliding his fingers along them.  
"Hmm?"  
"Not enough hands," Sherlock complained, running his fingernails slowly down John's back.  
John moaned softly. "If you could, you would be an octopus," he whispered breathily.  
"Still not enough hands for your body." His hand had reached John's waist, and he snaked a single finger down the back of his trousers, careful not to go too far down.  
John hummed. "A centipede, then. But those hands would be too small. I like your hands."  
"Thank you." Sherlock started moving his hand around, letting the finger slide over John's hip. He gave him a little push, so he could get a better angle and then worked his hand round to the front.  
"There it is," he said fondly.  
"Really," John said, pulling back a little.  
"Oh, come on," Sherlock whined, bending down. He pulled up on the shirt. "Just one kiss," he said and quickly pressed his lips to John's stomach.  
John sighed and shook his head, slowly climbing off Sherlock's lap.  
Sherlock pouted. "What?"  
"I am allowed to move, too."  
Sherlock watched him, puzzled.  
John stepped behind Sherlock's chair and lightly stroked the length of his neck on both sides. He let one of his hands wander further down on Sherlock's chest, under his shirt. "Any rules you want to set?" he whispered in Sherlock's ear.  
"No," Sherlock said, calmly. "You do whatever you want. In the end you'll probably be helping me no matter what."  
John smirked and pulled his hands back. "Then it's no problem if I don't touch you at all, either."

"I'd be disappointed," Sherlock admitted. "But I don't exactly feel like making rules about you having to touch me."  
"Hmm," John smiled. "Let's go to bed."


	23. Chapter 23

For a moment, Sherlock looked surprised. Then he smiled and nodded. "Whatever you say," he said as he got to his feet.  
"I'm just thinking ahead. Might be uncomfortable to move later," John said as he walked in front of Sherlock.  
As Sherlock followed, he began unbuttoning his shirt. If John wanted comfortable, who was he to argue? John stopped next to the bed, not moving, except his eyes which were following Sherlock's fingers. The detective let the shirt slide down his good arm by itself as far as it would go, then twisted his shoulder to get it completely off. Then, carefully, he eased it off his other arm. As he let it drop to the floor he looked at John. "Not against the rules, is it?"  
"No, not at all. It was about time you did that," John grinned.  
Sherlock chuckled. "Didn't really seem fair," he said and went to sit down on the bed.  
John stood a little closer, just watching. "So..." he said.  
"So...." Sherlock smiled. He put a hand on John's cheek and let it linger a moment before letting go and lying down on the bed, shifting a little to get his arm comfortable.  
"You're not doing much," John remarked.  
"Come over here, and I'll see if I can remedy that," Sherlock said with a wink. John sat down on his knees on the mattress, but kept his distance. "Awh, come on." Sherlock laughed. "I won't bite."  
"Really?" John said, putting on a disappointed expression.  
"Well, okay," Sherlock snorted. "If you ask me nicely."  
"I'm not sure I intend to be nice."  
"No? Well, I guess I can work with that." He reached out his hand. "Now get over here."  
John complied and lay down, his head on Sherlock's chest. "I never understand how you manage to feel so comfortable while being so bony."  
"It's because I have something soft to snuggle up to," Sherlock replied, wrapping his arm around John, letting his fingertips slide down his arm. "A little too soft right now admittedly," he added frowning at the jumper.  
John chuckled. "Nothing I'm going to do about that, I'm fine like this."  
"Me too," Sherlock said, tilting his head down and starting to kiss the back of John's neck.  
John hummed. "Do you want to know what I have in mind for next round?"  
"Of course. What have you come up with this time?"  
"I want to hear you. It would be interesting if you tried convincing me with just your voice..." John smirked.  
Sherlock suppressed a sigh. So much for keeping his secret weapon out of the game. "I suppose I could try," he answered, sounding doubtful.  
"Don't be like that," John laughed. "You know very well what you're capable of." He gently planted his teeth in Sherlock's collar bone for a moment.  
"Oy," Sherlock complained with a laugh. "No biting." Then he cleared his throat and resigned to using the voice. "Was this what you wanted all along?" he asked softly.  
"What exactly?" John asked, looking up with a smile.  
Sherlock let his voice settle at the level John had proven most responsive to. "Me telling you exactly how much I want you. How incredibly irresistible I find your body, and the things it can do to me?"  
"Oh." That was definitely having more effect than John had anticipated. "I can't say I'm opposed to it," he said, licking his lips as his mouth had suddenly gone dry.  
"Then all you had to do was ask, John," Sherlock continued. "No need to play this game..."  
"I'm amusing myself," John shrugged, smiling. "And it keeps you busy, too."  
"Oh, but you see... You promised me something. If I won this."  
"Oh yes, and I will keep my promise. I'm very curious what you have in mind." He hovered over Sherlock's face.  
"Ah," Sherlock raised an eyebrow teasingly. "I'm sure you can work it out without me telling you."  
"But the possibilities are endless..." John dropped a kiss on the corner of Sherlock's mouth.  
"Yes, they are, aren't they?" Sherlock purred. "But I do have something specific in mind. Something I've wanted for quite some time, but that I wanted you to offer, rather than ask it of you."  
"You can have anything," John whispered, pressing another small kiss just above his lip.  
"Anything?" Sherlock trembled at the kiss, wanting to move and catch John's lips, but still mindful of the rules of the current round.  
"Anything. Everything." He softly kissed Sherlock's upper lip and stroked his temple.  
"Then give in John. It's up to you now."  
John smiled. "Not yet. As gorgeous as you look and sound..."  
"You are a very cruel man, John Watson," Sherlock said with an exaggerated sigh. "What more do you want from me?"  
John smirked and sat up a little, straddling Sherlock's hips. "The next round. In which everything is allowed."  
"Everything except removing clothes I assume?" Sherlock asked with a grin.  
"That's allowed, but then you lose," John said smugly.  
"Prat," Sherlock smirked, grabbed the front of John's jumper and pulled him down for a very passionate kiss.  
John moaned and his hands found their familiar way to Sherlock's hair as he answered the kiss. Sherlock pushed his hips up against John, trying to shift him a little further up. John gasped and pulled back from the kiss.  
Sherlock smiled innocently at him. "Something wrong?"  
"No, not at all - just – air."  
Sherlock laughed and let go of his jumper. "Let me know when you're ready," he said and moved his hand round to John's back.  
John kissed him again and pressed his hips down. Sherlock moaned softly, letting his hand move down John's back and only pausing a moment before slipping it into his trousers. John groaned and moved against him, giving him better access.  
Sherlock shifted a little working his hand further down. "Y'know John," he mumbled against his lips. "This would be so much easier if you'd just open the button."  
John sighed into the kiss and sat up so he could pull off his jumper. "You always need to have it your way, hmm?"  
"Not necessarily," Sherlock replied, teasingly wriggling his fingers. "I was just stating a fact."  
"It was getting a bit hot anyway," John said, opening the button and zipper of his trousers, but keeping them and his shirt on.  
"Very hot," Sherlock agreed, as he worked his hand into John's pants.  
John kissed him again and moved into his hand. Having more room to move, Sherlock let it slide all the way down and slowly started circling John's hole with a single fingertip. John made a small sound and clung onto Sherlock's shoulders.  
Sherlock kept working him gently until he felt the muscle relax, then he slipped the tip of the finger inside. "Okay?" he whispered against John's lips.  
"Yes, but I think this would be better without clothes and with lube," John panted.  
"Of course," Sherlock couldn't suppress a happy breathless laugh. "You call the shots."  
John quickly opened two buttons of his shirt and pulled it over his head, along with his undershirt. He dropped them next to the bed and sat up on his knees to get rid of his trousers and pants, then started on Sherlock's. Sherlock watched him with a small, almost nervous smile. John being so eager for this was really much more than he had dared to hope for.  
"You won," John breathed, just to have the formalities behind them, as he pulled Sherlock's pants off his legs.  
Sherlock was much too pleased to feel even the least bit triumphant, he just reached his hand out to John. "Come here," he said.  
John resettled on top of him and pressed his lips to Sherlock's neck.   
Sherlock pulled John up to kiss him. "I love you," he whispered when he finally let go.  
"You too. We have to play this more often," he said, before hungrily kissing Sherlock again.  
"Can't we just skip the game and go straight to winning next time?" Sherlock asked when they came up for air again.  
John let out a breathless laugh. "Never one for patience, hmm?" he said with a fond look. He reached for the lube on the nightstand and handed it to Sherlock. "I propose you continue where you left off."  
Sherlock didn't take it but rather held out his hand, with a small embarrassed smile. "I will need some help here."  
John chuckled and kissed his jaw. "I'm going to enjoy it even more once you're less helpless," he smirked, pressing a generous amount of lube on Sherlock's fingers.  
"Something to look forward to then," Sherlock agreed, as he reached down behind John. "Let me know if I'm going too fast," he said as he carefully pushed against the hole, not yet breaching.  
John moaned and pressed his face into Sherlock's neck, breathing him in. "Just fine," he mumbled.  
As the finger slipped inside Sherlock sighed shakily. "Okay?" he asked.  
"It's - strange," John admitted. "Wait a bit."  
Sherlock kept still, pressing soft kisses to the top of John's head. "Take your time."  
John hummed and tried to relax, experimentally pushing a little back. "Okay. Slowly."  
Sherlock continued to push gently, letting John adjust. He desperately wanted to stroke his back and comfort him, but the cast on his arm made it impossible. So instead he tried using his voice. "I love you so much," he murmured, "You are the most amazing thing in my life."  
John whimpered quietly. "I love you too. More," he added, moaning and pressing his cock against Sherlock's body.  
Sherlock kissed John's forehead. "It's all the way in," he said, his voice soft and trembling a little. "Do you want me to start moving it or give you a moment?"  
"Move," John panted, but as soon as Sherlock pulled a bit back he winced. "More lube," he said in a strangled voice.  
Very carefully Sherlock pulled the finger a little further out. He frowned at John. "Can you reach it?" He asked. "Or should I..."  
"Just pull out," John said between clenched teeth, already taking the bottle so he had something to squeeze in his hand.  
Sherlock complied and held up his hand to John. "Maybe we should wait..." he said, uncertain.  
John kissed his lips and gave him more lube. "No, it's fine. I actually think that I'm going to explode if we wait any longer. I just never did this, and my body doesn't know what to expect, and I can't really get myself to relax."  
"I'm sorry, I'm so bloody useless," Sherlock said, moving his hand down and carefully working his finger in again, only halfway. "Tell me if there is anything I can do to make it easier."  
John nodded and bent his head for another, slow kiss. Focusing on the kiss rather than on Sherlock's fingers, he managed to relax, and the feeling of Sherlock inside him actually became more pleasant than he had imagined it could be. He pulled back with a moan.  
"Better?" Sherlock asked.  
"Much," John breathed, pushing back on the finger for more pressure.  
Sherlock moved the finger a little, making tiny thrusts while watching John intently.  
John fell forward with his face in the pillow next to Sherlock's head, his breathing ragged. "That's-" he managed, sounding muffled, before he was interrupted by an embarrassingly loud moan.  
"Good?" Sherlock supplied, making the movements longer, going just a little deeper with every thrust.  
John just sighed, his eyes closed, and now and then making a small sound of pleasure. "Sherlock..."  
When he couldn't go deeper, Sherlock crooked his finger a little and twisted it, searching. John cried out. "Do that again," he gasped.  
Sherlock smiled and repeated the twist, memorizing it. Then he started moving the finger in longer thrusts aiming to hit the exact spot every time.  
John groaned and his mind went blank. After a few thrusts he saw stars and he hardly remembered to breathe. "Sherlock."  
Sherlock paused. "Ready for more?" He whispered in John's ear.  
"Yes," John whimpered. "Please." Sherlock pulled the finger almost out before adding another and carefully pushing back in. John blew out, but the pleasure was overruling the pain. He kissed Sherlock's neck. "Amazing... You are amazing..."  
"No, John," Sherlock answered, almost overwhelmed by John's responses. "You are."  
"I'm just not sure I can hold out long enough," John gasped. His cock was straining and leaking against his stomach.  
Sherlock stopped his hand. "That's okay," he said. "We can just do this now, and save the rest for another time. I quite like the thought of making you come like this."  
"But I want to give you this."  
"Next time, John. I won, I choose. And I choose this." He started moving his fingers again.  
"Yes," John said breathlessly, clinging to Sherlock as pleasure waved over him once again. "Can I... Oh, god. Can I touch myself?"  
"Of course."  
He started stroking himself in the rhythm indicated by Sherlock's fingers and moaned as the combined sensations very quickly brought him on the edge. "Sher-" he panted, then gave in and kissed Sherlock.  
Sherlock returned the kiss hungrily, completely caught up in John's pleasure and the awe of making him come so utterly undone.  
John's hips bucked as he couldn't hold back his orgasm any longer and he slightly pulled back from the kiss so he had air once he remembered breathing. Then he slumped down on Sherlock's shoulder. "God, I love you," he mumbled.  
"Oh John, I love you too," Sherlock answered, as he carefully pulled his fingers out. "I love you so much."  
John kissed his clavicle, not able to do much more as he was still panting.  
Sherlock lay still for a while, letting John catch his breath. Then he nudged him gently. "Let's get cleaned up."  
"Hmm. Shouldn't I give you a hand first?"  
Sherlock chuckled. "I was kind of hoping we could take care of that in the shower."  
"Sure," John smiled, slowly pushing himself up and pressing a kiss on Sherlock's lips.  
Sherlock smiled against his lips. "Just take your time."  
"Sorry," John said, getting up with a small wince. "It feels strange."  
"I know," Sherlock swung his legs off the bed, and sat up, with only a little difficulty. "It'll pass."  
"And like you said, it's absolutely worth it." John took his hand and gave him a quick peck, before he pulled him along to the bathroom.  
Sherlock followed, with a very happy grin. Once they were in the shower, he pulled John close for a long slow kiss.  
John hummed and lowered his hands to Sherlock's hips. "What do you want?" he whispered against Sherlock's lips.  
Sherlock shrugged. "You mentioned giving me a hand..." he said, grinning.  
John hummed and pressed his palm against Sherlock's cock. "You could also have a mouth..."  
Sherlock moaned at the touch. "Whatever..." he gasped. "Whatever you want."  
"It's your prize," John said slowly, tightening his hand around him.  
Sherlock shook his head and smiled. "I’ve already had my prize."  
John smiled up at him and kissed him again. "I love you." He started stroking him in a slow rhythm, his fingertips trailing along the veins.  
Sherlock closed his eyes. He rested his hand on John's shoulder and let his head fall back. "I love you too," he muttered.  
John locked his lips to Sherlock's neck and sucked, while he kept moving his hand.  
Sherlock gasped and dug his fingers into John's shoulder. "Close..." he whispered.  
John quickened his strokes and twisted his hand every time it slid over the head of Sherlock's erection.  
"Oh god," Sherlock moaned. His whole body shook as he came and then almost collapsed against John. John supported him and stroked his back, pressing kisses on his neck and jaw.  
Sherlock straightened up enough to catch John's lips with his and with his arm behind his neck, pulled him so close he was almost crushing him. John hugged him back, letting out a soft moan when he really needed to breathe. Finally Sherlock released him and laughed happily. "You really are amazing," he said, looking down at John with a tender smile.  
John chuckled. "Now I know which game to play next time you're bored or in a foul mood."  
Sherlock snorted. "Not sure we should play this if I were in a foul mood. Anyway, next time it's your turn to play."  
"Already looking forward to that," John smirked.


	24. Chapter 24

Ten blissful days passed, and then someone posted a message on John's blog about a case. John had already declined it, before Sherlock had even had the chance to look at it and of course he was furious when he found out. All those days of being locked up, and John didn't even tell him?  
"You wouldn't have taken it anyway, even I thought it was boring! And you're still not well."  
Sherlock bit back a string of insults and then didn't talk to John all day. Late at night, he curled up in bed against John and muttered something that could have been an apology. Or not. John wrapped his arms around him and told him it was okay.

"I needed that case, John," Sherlock mumbled, his face pressed against John's shoulder. "I need to work again."  
"Not this case, Sherlock. It would have been a lot of running around for nothing much. You'd never have taken it if it hadn't been so long since you had work. But I'll let you have a look at the next one."  
Sherlock moaned. "You're a cruel man, doctor."  
John kissed his temple. "I know, but it would only prolong the time you need to heal if you push yourself now."  
Sherlock pulled away and looked John in the eyes. "I don't want to push myself. It's not the running around I need. It's the work. The puzzles. I need to think."  
"Hmm, I don't think there's anything wrong with letting you do that. Still, this case wouldn't have been much brainwork."  
Sherlock pouted for a moment. "Okay, but as soon as something that involves just the least bit of mystery comes along, we're taking it."  
John put a hand on Sherlock's neck and stroked him. "Alright, but I'll do, as your brother would put it, the leg work."  
Sherlock kissed his cheek. "Thank you," he said. "I love you."  
"You too," John smiled, kissing Sherlock's lips.  
…  
Sherlock was pacing the flat. John had gone to the shop, and though it had only been twenty minutes, he was growing increasingly impatient. He was fine. His arm was still in a cast, but there was hardly anything he hadn't learned to do with one hand. In fact, in the beginning, it had been an interesting challenge to carry out everyday tasks without the full use of his right hand and arm. But now the novelty had worn off and the boredom was greater than ever before. Walks in the park and roaming the net were no longer enough. He needed to work. He needed to be challenged. But John was babying him. His ridiculously harsh restrictions were making it impossible to do anything. He doubted it would be possible to find a case that would meet John's approval. Despite any promises, Sherlock did not doubt that John would put his foot down if he in any way felt a case might make him 'push' himself.  
The doorbell rang and Sherlock frowned. Had John forgotten his key?  
As he made his way down the stairs he was annoyed to notice that even such a simple task gave him some relief from the forced inactivity that had become his life. Was this what he had been reduced to? A doorman?  
The young man who greeted him nervously, instantly improved his mood. He was not from London. His otherwise smart suit showed definite evidence of a journey of at least some hours. But not by train. He hadn't been driving himself either. Sherlock glanced down the street and instantly located the chauffeured grey car. It was not a young man’s car though, and definitely not this nervous, mid-twenties, wide-eyed boy's. So he was sent by someone. Someone with money but taste. Probably a family member, otherwise they would not have sent someone so young and inexperienced.  
"Mr. Holmes?" the young man asked with a frown, clearly taking in the rumpled robe, pyjama pants, t-shirt and tangled hair.  
"Yes," Sherlock answered, feeling that the other's confusion was a much better reproof of his own appearance than if he had shown scorn or disdain.  
The young man nodded and held out his hand. "Ian Gryffydd," he said. "I am here on behalf of my uncle, who would like to request your assistance in a matter of great personal importance." Welsh, Sherlock noted, as he nodded and waited expectantly. As it became clear the young man was waiting too, Sherlock caught up and quickly stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "Upstairs," he muttered, annoyed with how sluggish his mind seemed to have become.  
He followed Ian upstairs and signalled for him to take a seat, excused himself and retreated to his bedroom, to put on something more suitable for receiving clients. He didn't usually care, but something about this young man's nervous correctness made him want to actually put in a little effort. Or maybe it was just the prospect of actually working a case again. As he struggled to get the cast through the sleeve of his shirt, he heard the front door open.  
"Uhm, hello," John said to the strange man sitting in his chair. He had his arms full of bags from the shop and awkwardly closed the door behind him with his foot. He frowned, a little confused. "Are you a client of Sherlock's?"  
Ian jumped to his feet and rushed over. Taking two of the bags from John, he said: "Yes. Or at least I hope so... that is... Well, my uncle is the client really... the potential client I mean." He frowned and then grinned sheepishly. "My name is Ian Gryffydd."  
John stared in surprise at the bags that had disappeared from his own hands. "Uhm, thank you. I'm John Watson, Sherlock's... flatmate. And. Uhm. You can bring those to the kitchen, if you want."  
Ian smiled. "Pleased to meet you," he said as he carried the bags over and put them on the counter. Then he turned to John and held out his hand.  
John shook it. "You too." He started putting everything in its right place in the cupboards and fridge. "Would you like some tea?"  
"Oh yes, that would be lovely," Ian smiled. Then he glanced at the kettle. "Can I help?"  
"Oh, yeah, if you want to." After living with Sherlock all this time, John had to keep himself from staring at Ian as if he was some rare species of animal. Then he frowned. "Where is Sherlock?"  
"I believe he went to get changed," Ian answered as he filled the kettle. "I think I caught him at a bad time. He did not seem prepared for company."  
"No, he's been injured during our last case," John explained. "I'll go find him, okay?"  
Ian nodded, as he started to clean the rather stained teapot.  
John stared at the teapot in Ian's hands for a second longer before he went to the bedroom. "Sherlock, are you trying to put on your whole wardrobe at the same time or what is taking you so long?"  
Sherlock huffed at John's question. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to button a shirt with only one hand?" he asked as he slipped on his jacket (one that was a little looser than he usually preferred, to allow room for the cast). He turned to John and held out his arms. "How do I look?"  
"Gorgeous as always," John smirked. He took a step forward. "You might have a client."  
Sherlock couldn't suppress an eager smile. "I know," he said as he went to John and hugged him. "I hope it's a good one."  
John hugged him back and kissed his cheek. "Let's go and find out."  
Sherlock nodded and gave him a quick kiss. Then he straightened his jacket one last time and headed for the door. He had only taken one step through it, however, when he stopped.  
Mysteriously, enough of the table had been cleared to make room for three cups. Ian was holding an unfamiliar-looking white teapot. Sherlock frowned. Had John bought a new one?  
"Wow," John said to Ian, gently pushing Sherlock aside so he could enter the living room. "You've managed to get it clean."  
Ian shrugged, blushing a little. "It wasn't hard," he said, pouring three cups of tea.  
Sherlock looked from Ian to John and then back again. "That's our teapot?" he asked, as he went to take a seat at the table. "Impressive." He gestured for Ian to sit. "Please. Tell us why you're here."  
"And thank you," John quickly dropped in, gesturing at the teapot.  
Ian smiled. "You're welcome," he said to John. Then he turned to face Sherlock. "My uncle sent me. He believes that you are the only one who can help him."  
With his usual lack of modesty, Sherlock nodded and gestured for him to go on.  
"My uncle is an avid collector of rare books," Ian explained. "It has been his life-long passion, but now the 'crown jewel' of his collection, as he calls it, is missing."  
John looked at Sherlock, wondering if a missing book would be interesting enough for him.  
Sherlock, however, smiled. Surely John wouldn't consider books to be too stressful. He nodded for Ian to go on.  
"It's called Abscondita in Aperto," Ian said, struggling a little to get his tongue around the unfamiliar words. "And..."  
Immediately Sherlock perked up. "Really?" he interrupted. "I thought that book was just a myth."  
John frowned. "You know it? What is it about?" If Sherlock had heard about it and didn't delete it, it must be something dangerous.  
Sherlock turned to John. "I have no idea actually," he said. "As I said, I thought it was just a myth. But it's mentioned in some other texts of the time. It's quite a story actually."  
Ian nodded. "Yes, supposedly only two copies were made. Legend has it that the printer was attacked and killed before he could make more, and the original manuscript was burned. But that can't be confirmed. Uncle found the book somewhere up north many years ago. He's had it tested in any conceivable way and it appears to be genuine..." He frowned. "But now it's gone missing.”  
"Do you have any idea yourself of what can have happened to it?" John asked.  
Ian shook his head. "That's the real mystery. It disappeared from my uncle's library sometime between last Friday evening and Monday morning. He was away for the weekend and the house was locked, the alarm on. As far as we can tell, no one has entered the house during that time. No signs of forced entry, the alarm had not been disengaged, nothing in the room disturbed as far as we can tell. The book is just... gone"  
Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "Why have you not contacted me before? Surely you know that any clues gained from the scene are more likely to be compromised as time passes?"  
"Yes," Ian replied. "But, naturally, my uncle first tried contacting the police."  
Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in his chair.  
"What did they make of it?" John asked Ian.  
"They said the book clearly hadn't been stolen, so my uncle must have misplaced it." He almost cringed at the memory. Then he hurried to continue. "But uncle would never just lose a book. He takes very good care of all of them, and hardly ever takes them off the shelves. He only noticed it was missing because he wanted to check something in it when he came home."  
"What did he want to check?" Sherlock asked, so eagerly that Ian almost recoiled.  
"I ... I don't know. Uncle didn't tell me," he gasped.  
Sherlock leaned back, mind already working. "Hardly a coincidence," he muttered.  
"But you said he was also certain that the book was still there on Friday evening," John remembered. "Had he already specifically looked at that book then?"  
Ian frowned. "Now that you mention it, that is a bit odd..."  
Sherlock gave John an approving nod. Then he got up.  
"Looks like we're going to Cardiff," he said grinning.  
Ian too got to his feet. "I never said where..."  
"Yes, but he knows. You don't want to know how," John interjected quickly, before Sherlock could start showing off. "And Sherlock, I'm not sure you are going anywhere at all."  
Sherlock's grin melted away. "Come on, John," he said, almost not whining. He gestured vaguely at Ian. "It's just books..."  
"But we agreed that you wouldn't do any running around, and there you are, jumping up to go to Cardiff. I still think that keeping calm for a little longer wouldn't hurt you," John said sternly.  
If it hadn't been for Ian's presence, Sherlock would have thrown a full blown tantrum. But he sensed that such a display would make the young man bolt, so instead, he took a deep calming breath and said. "John? Can I talk to you for a moment?", indicating the bedroom door with a nod.  
"Yes, I think that will be best. Sorry, Ian. We'll be back in a minute."  
Once in the bedroom, Sherlock whirled towards John. "You have got to let me take this case," he hissed, with a note of desperation. "There's no murder, no violence, nothing remotely dangerous in any way and at the same time it is practically a locked room murder. It's perfect."  
"I'm glad you think so and I'm not saying that you can't take it, Sherlock," John said calmly. "But I don't think you should go to Cardiff. I could go and give you the details, and then you can solve it from here, so you don't have to travel or anything else that is wearing you out."  
For a moment Sherlock felt mutinous, and he very nearly told John to get stuffed, but then he deflated. "I suppose so," he said with a sigh.  
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and looked up at him. "I'm not doing this to bully you. I'd much rather have you go with me, but your health is more important."  
Sherlock huffed, but kept his thoughts about John's motivations to himself, knowing them to be at least in part based on his own admittedly childish disappointment at being kept out of action. "I know," he said and gave John a quick kiss. "Now let's go and accept this case, shall we?"


	25. Chapter 25

John stared when they drove through a steel gate and the mansion came in sight. It was a huge, white building, encircled by a neat garden, though now, in winter, it looked rather sad, having no sprigs that stuck out wildly to break the bareness. He could only just keep himself from stating that Ian's uncle must be rich, having a house like that, but probably Ian would get embarrassed. Instead, he remembered that Sherlock needed him to observe, and he let his gaze go over the garden and house, looking for accessible windows.  
As the car stopped in front of the house, Ian jumped out and went round to John's side to open the door for him. "Welcome to Gryffydd Hall."  
"It's impressive," John said, looking around as he got out of the car.  
Ian just smiled and led the way to the large front doors. As he approached, they opened. Ian broke into a smile and said: "Uncle, I could not bring you Sherlock Holmes, but this man will be able to help you. Meet Doctor Watson."  
The man in the door could easily have walked out of 1895, John thought with some surprise. On the road, Ian had told him that his uncle was a professor emeritus in English literature from Cardiff University, who simply lived for his book collection, and of course those facts had already formed a rather dusty image of the old man in John’s head - though that was nothing compared to reality. Professor Gryffydd was wearing a dark grey three-piece suit, complete with a golden chain that led to the fob watch in his pocket. Another gold chain held his reading glasses around his neck, half hidden under a white beard. The man was smiling as he welcomed them, but he still had an earnest look, caused by his piercing blue eyes.  
“Come in, come in! My name is Owain Gryffydd, just call me Owain and don’t dare to professor me. And that’s about the only house rule. How do you do, Doctor Watson?”  
“Er, John’s fine, too. Very nice to meet you, you have a magnificent house.”  
“See, Ian? People like it. It’s not over the top at all, like you are always nagging.” Owain lifted his glasses off his chest and looked into them for a moment before dropping them again. “Be a good boy and fix us some tea.”  
"Certainly, uncle," Ian said with a little bow. He nodded to John and disappeared further into the house.  
John was once again surprised. Ian really seemed to function as a butler. Did that even still exist these days? If Gryffydd Hall was placed on a rift in space and time, it was no wonder that books disappeared.  
“Follow me,” Owain said. They went to what was apparently the living room, or at least one of the living rooms. A fire spread its warmth and on the other side of the room stood an impressive grandfather clock, its ticking impossible to ignore.   
‘Sherlock would go mad here. Or he would love it,’ John thought.  
 “I will show you the books in a minute. It just really is time for my cup of tea, and I must admit that in my laziness I have waited for Ian to return.”  
So he would get along with Sherlock.  
“Ian told us what happened. The police didn’t help you?” John said.  
Owain flew up from his chair. “Curse the police!” he called out, his Welsh accent showing much more than it had done before.  
"Uncle," Ian said, as he entered, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. "Remember what the doctor said. You must not let yourself get so excited."  
"Right," the professor said, sitting down again. "Sorry. I just don't see how they can think that I just put it somewhere. As if people don't know the place of an object in their own house!"  
John decided not to comment on that. "Ian told Sherlock and me that you last saw the book on Friday evening. Was there a reason why you especially went to have a look at it?"  
"Yes! I went to a convention, last weekend, and we were discussing mysterious books like the Abscondita in aperto," Owain nodded. "I got a special invitation because they knew I had it in my possession."  
"But you didn't take it with you?" John frowned.  
"No, of course not! The very thought! It is far too delicate to travel with. The bastard who took it out of the house has probably damaged it..." Owain had a look at his glasses again. "I needed to take a picture of the cover, they had asked to see it."  
Ian put down the tray and started pouring the tea.  
"Is there anyone who can enter the house when you are absent?" John asked Owain.  
"No, only Ian, but of course I don't suspect him. He's fussing about my blood pressure all the time, then surely he wouldn't do anything to my books. This situation certainly isn't helping my health."  
Ian nodded in agreement as he handed his uncle a cup of tea. "I was away the whole weekend," he said. "Visiting friends in Birmingham."  
"Alright," John said, before taking a sip of his tea. "I'll need to have a look at your library, and then at the security system. Then I'll contact Sherlock and hopefully he'll find a solution."  
Owain nodded. "Why didn't he come himself?"  
"He couldn't excite himself too much either. Doctor's orders and all that," John said with a small apologetic smile.  
"I can show you the library," Ian said. "And the security system, though it has already been checked. There have been no malfunctions and it was never shut off during the weekend."  
John stood up and looked at Owain.  
The old man nodded. "Yes, you can go, I'll enjoy my tea a little longer if you don't mind. Don't forget to wear gloves if you touch the books!"  
"This way, please." Ian led John upstairs, then down a corridor. At the end he got out a key and unlocked a large wooden door. "Uncle has kept it locked since the theft," he explained, as he opened the door into a large square room, lined with bookcases from floor to ceiling.  
"Wow," John said under his breath as he looked around. This certainly was a paradise for a book lover. The backs of most books looked old and brownish, but some had extravagant drawings; some were tiny, and one was so high that the shelf above had been shortened so it could fit in the case.   
"Can you show me the place where the Abscondita in Aperto is missing now?" he asked after a moment.  
Ian went to the very back of the room and behind the large desk. "Down here," he said and pointed to a small gap in the line of books on one of the lower shelves.  
"Hmm." John looked at the desk, then scanned the walls. "Is that the only motion detector in this room?" he asked, pointing at the corner farthest from the desk.  
Ian nodded. "Yes, it covers the whole room."  
"Okay," John nodded. "I think I'll call Sherlock to inform him about everything I've seen so far. Can I walk around a bit, or are there any rooms you or your uncle would like to keep private?"  
Ian considered. "My uncle would probably prefer if you did not go into his rooms. At least not unaccompanied. But that should be it."  
John nodded. "Can you show me where it is, so I don't wander in by accident?"   
"Of course." Ian went to the door and held it open for John. He gave him a quick tour of the house, showing him not only where his uncle’s rooms were, but also his own, which he assured John he could freely enter during his investigation.  
John thanked him, hoping that Ian was just being friendly and not actually inviting him, as he took his phone out of his pocket and leaned against the wall. "Hello, Sherlock?"  
Sherlock had almost tripped over the power chord for his laptop getting to his phone. Taking a moment to compose himself, he answered, as nonchalantly as he could. "Yes, John. You have arrived?"  
"Yeah. Is the flat still standing? Nothing exploded yet?"  
"I almost did at one point," Sherlock replied with a snort. "So, how does it look?"  
"Pretty safe at first sight... There are motion detectors that cover the rooms, in the library as well. The house is huge though. There was no-one at home last weekend, and except for Ian and Owain no-one can come in either," John reported.  
Sherlock considered for a moment. "So," he said finally. "No-one entered or exited the house during the time in which the book was removed." He thought some more and then asked: "How reliable are those motion detectors? Have they been checked for defects? Blind spots?"  
"Er, they're pretty sure they're functioning... I can have a better look at them, if you want - but even then, with the alarm on, I'm sure no-one could move through the mansion without getting caught."  
"Yes, we need to have them checked. How about the doors? Are they monitored or could they have been opened? Have you checked all the rooms yet? You need to look for anything, and I mean anything out of the ordinary." Sherlock flopped down on the sofa, doing his best to keep the frustration out of his voice. If only he could be there. John had learned much, but he still did not have an eye for details. Not the important ones anyway. "Perhaps you could take some pictures and send them to me. Of the library. Any possible access points. The different rooms in the house. And of course the security system."  
"Wow, Sherlock, not everything at the same time. Doors, rooms, got it. I'll send you some pictures. How do you want me to check blind spots of the detectors? Do a little dance and see if the alarm goes off?"  
"More or less," Sherlock said with a chuckle. "But a little more complex than that. You'll need to have someone keep a constant watch on the monitors and check any possible route from the door to the location of the book." He almost added: 'and have someone film it, because I could do with a good laugh.'  
John sighed. "Already looking forward to it. Do you mind if I do the rest of the investigation tomorrow? It's getting late and I couldn't sleep in the car, Ian was chatting away."  
It took great effort for Sherlock to harness his impatience and not just scream at John to get moving. Instead he said: "Of course not. Get some rest. I have got plenty of research on the book and its myth planned to keep me occupied."  
"Thank you. Goodnight."  
"Goodnight, John."  
As Sherlock hung up, he let the frustration take over for a second, groaning with exasperation. This was intolerable. Here was the most deliciously mysterious case he had had in a long time and he was stuck in the flat while John was off taking naps at the crime scene. He jumped off the sofa and started pacing.  
Then he had an idea. He rushed to the mantelpiece and picked up the card left by Ian earlier. If John was too tired, maybe the chatty young man could give him some information.  
John felt a little guilty when he put his phone away. Sherlock probably didn't approve of the fact he was going to sleep, but he simply couldn't abandon his health completely for a case, at least not if he didn't have an impatient Sherlock by his side. Ian brought him to the guest room, next to his own, and John let himself drop on the bed. Tired as he felt, it took him hours to fall asleep in the cold, small bed, which made him feel even more guilty because he could have used that time for the investigation. Tomorrow, early in the morning, he promised.  
"Hi Ian," Sherlock said, unaware that he was using his Molly-voice. "I hope you don't mind me calling so late, but I just felt that we didn't really have time to talk before you rushed off with John."  
"Oh." Ian hesitated for a moment. "No, of course not. I'm just so grateful that you have agreed to help uncle with this. Anything I can do to help, just let me know."  
Sherlock smiled smugly as he settled down on the sofa, and began the interrogation.


	26. Chapter 26

John exhaled. At last he had reached the first floor, where the library was located. Luckily there were no detectors on the stairs, or he would have gone mad trying to avoid them. Probably he would have had to slither up the stairs like a snake. Good thing that the security wasn't perfect, he thought grimly.  
Now he was huddled on the top step, looking where he should go. The detector was on his left, looking over the hall upstairs, and the smallest step forward would make the alarm go off. That meant that he had to stay low, pressed against the wall. It didn't help that Ian was behind him on the stairs, so he could move more freely during John's test, watching every move and clearly amusing himself.  
Owain had taken position by the front door, ready to switch off the alarm as soon as John would set it off. It had already happened once, when he had been stupid enough to try to cross the hall, instead of going through the living room to reach the other side of the house, where the stairs were. It had seemed more logical that a thief would come through the back door, and that would have saved John a lot of difficulty and uncomfortable positions, but Sherlock would probably be furious if he heard that John hadn't tried everything, so there he was, on his knees with his side pressed to the wall, crawling towards the library door. The things I do for that man, he thought, mentally shaking his head at himself.  
He pushed the door open just far enough to get through, then crawled into the corner to catch his breath and thinking of a way to pass this room. The detector was right above him, so as long as he stayed where he was, there was no problem. Subsequently, he should stay close to the bookcase, but once on the other side of the room, he would inevitably come into view of the motion detector.  
Hmm. He had almost decided that this final step made it impossible to reach the place behind the desk where the book had been placed, when he realized that if he lay down and crawled through on his stomach, as flat as he could, it would be possible to keep out of sight. For a moment that thought evoked visions of crawling through the mud years ago in his army days, but he quickly shook them off. The fact that it was possible, was enough; he didn't actually need to perform this last step to know what he needed.  
He sighed and wished he could get up and stretch his painful limbs already. "You can switch it off!" he called through the door, still pressed up in his corner.  
As soon as the system was off, Ian rushed to the library. "So it's possible?" he asked.  
"Yeah," John said, getting up and cracking his neck. "Far from comfortable to try it though. I'd prefer buying a book if it were up to me."  
Ian chuckled. "I'm not sure it would be easier buying this particular book." Then he smiled at John. "Tea?"  
"Yeah, I could use some." He stretched with his arms above his head. "The question still remains how he got back out once he had the book."  
Ian frowned. "Are you sure it was a 'he'?" he asked. "Do you know something?" Then his face lit up. "Oh, of course. Sherlock has already found a suspect, right?"  
"Uhm, Sherlock would say it is statistically more probable. Wasn't really thinking so much when I said that."  
"Oh." Ian paused for a moment. Then he went on: "But he already has some ideas right? Last night he said that I'd been very helpful, so he must know something, right? Or at least suspect it?"  
"Last night?" John frowned. "Where have you seen him last night?"  
"Oh," Ian smiled a little shyly. "He called me."  
"Ah. He didn't tell me he would. What did he ask you?"  
"Oh, stuff." Ian's eyes became unfocused as he remembered. "About uncle's habits, his friends and guests. My friends..." he seemed lost in thought for a moment, then shook himself. "Tea!" he said. "Want me to bring it here or would you rather have it in the sitting room?"  
"Sitting room," John said, still frowning. Ian seemed far too distracted when thinking of his boyfriend. Suddenly it wasn't a problem at all to think of Sherlock like that.  
'Security system isn't watertight. Had a nice chat with Ian?' he texted while going downstairs.  
Sherlock's reply came a few minutes later: 'Good work. Send me the details and pictures. And yes, it was very enlightening.'  
'What did you learn?' John typed a little aggressively, sitting down in a chair, waiting for tea. Normally he would offer to help Ian, but at the moment he didn't feel like it.  
'That Ian Gryffydd is not a very good judge of character. Need to confirm some things, but I may have found a suspect.'  
'Who? I think you made quite an impression on Ian.'  
'Ian had a friend stay at the house three weeks ago. A fairly new acquaintance named Oliver Burghess, or so he claimed. He seemed to have had free access to most of the house in the five days he spent there, and I believe that this time may have been utilised to familiarise himself with the layout and security system.'  
As Ian poured the tea he glanced at John's phone and smiled.  
John glared up at him, before he remembered to force his face into friendliness. "Thanks."  
'Perhaps he also found out that the book was here back then? Why would he steal it? Money?'  
Sherlock's response came quickly. 'No.'  
And then, only a few seconds later, another one came in: 'Though rare, the book is hardly the most valuable in the collection. Someone wanted that specific book, and 'Burghess' was clearly there with the sole purpose of locating the book and figuring out how to get it. Then it was only a matter of gaining access to the house before Ian and his uncle left for the weekend. Once alone in the house, it would have been easy to make his way to the library. Have you made any progress in determining where he was hiding?'  
'Yeah, really easy to get to the library with the alarm on, if you have a soft rubber tube instead of a spine. I may hope for him that he wasn't hiding too far from the library. Though it would make things easier if he was already hidden in the house. The rooms closest to the library are Ian's and Owain's, and perhaps the bathroom. No good hiding places in the library itself, and then he still had to find a way to get out again.'  
'What can you tell me about those rooms? Please send pictures.'  
'Can't show you Owain's. Some people have this thing they value, called privacy.'  
John looked up from his phone. "Ian, could I see your room? Sherlock would like a picture, but of course it's alright if you'd rather not have me send that."  
Ian blushed a little. "No," he said hurriedly. "Of course you can."  
"For the case," John felt the need to add sternly.  
Ian's blush deepened. "Of course..." He wouldn't quite meet John's eyes. "Now?" he asked.  
"Uhm, yeah, he's pretty impatient," John shrugged.  
Ian nodded and motioned for John to follow him. As they walked to his room he asked: "What's he like working with?"  
John looked around and took out his phone to take the pictures. "He's... pretty impossible," he answered, carefully minding his words.  
Ian grinned. "You share that flat with him too, don't you? Is he equally impossible to live with?"  
"He's, uhm... yeah. Hardly anyone would put up with him," John said, snapping another picture of the desk.  
"It must be interesting too though, right?" Ian sat down on his bed, watching John work.  
"Yes. You know. If you like body parts in the fridge," John said offhandedly.  
Ian snorted. "Really?"  
"They're for experiments," John nodded.  
"Oh," Ian watched him again for a while. "How long have you known him?"  
"We've been living together for... God, it's almost a year," John realized.  
"Wow. But didn't you know each other before that?"  
"Er, no. I had returned from Afghanistan a few months before and I was looking for an affordable flat in London," John explained, putting his phone back in his pocket. "I've sent the pictures, we're done here."  
Ian frowned. "So you just moved in together without knowing each other?"  
"Well, he more or less knew everything about me anyway. He had deduced the most important points, and we got along from the start. And he looked as if he could make my life a little less meaningl- well." That was none of Ian's business actually.  
"Yes, he does that, doesn't he?" Ian said with a smile. "I only met him yesterday and we were out the door so quickly. But when he called last night. It was like he'd known me my whole life."  
John slightly narrowed his eyes and looked up at him. "Yes..." he said slowly.  
Ian blushed again. "So," he said. "You were done here?”  
"Yes, I'll take some pictures of the library now, and then Sherlock can get to work with that. He's probably bored to death by now."  
"Oh yes," Ian said. "It must be hard for a man like that, having to stay home and leave all the work to his assistant."  
"Excuse me?" John said, pulling up his eyebrows.  
"I mean, he seems so full of energy and he is so... intense... I wish I could have seen him at work."  
"Yeah, but I'm not actually his assistant," John said, wrinkling his nose.  
"Oh," Ian said. "But I thought..." he paused. "What exactly are you then?"  
"I'm his doctor, and his best friend, and the one who ordered him to stay home, so most certainly not his assistant," John said defensively. And his bloody boyfriend.  
"Oh... I..." Ian stammered, almost flinching at his tone. "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to..." he stopped, looking mortified.  
John cleared his throat and took pity on him. "It's okay." It was Sherlock's fault after all. Using his charm almost only on the people he shouldn't use it on.  
Ian got to his feet. "You wanted some pictures of the library too, right?"  
"Yes, if that's possible."  
"Of course it is." Ian went to the door and held it open for John.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock flicked through the images on the screen. This was almost too easy. There was only one place in the house where the thief could have been hiding, and it seemed he had been making himself very comfortable. How could John have missed this? It was possibly the most frustrating thing he had ever experienced, being stuck here in London while vital clues were being overlooked at a scale that seemed almost deliberate.  
He reached for his phone. "Ian? Hi, it's Sherlock. That friend of yours we talked about. Do you think you could introduce him to John?"  
"Setting your dear flatmate up with another man?" Mycroft said from the door opening. He was pleased to see Sherlock start, just having put away his phone and not aware that his elder brother had been listening behind him, although of course the younger immediately tried to hide that fact. "Already bored of the new levels of your relationship?"  
"Don't be absurd, brother," Sherlock responded haughtily. "The friend in question is a suspect. And besides, I doubt he even exists."  
"I'm so glad John has allowed you to take a case again," Mycroft said, no actual emotion to be found in his voice. He sat down in John's chair, facing Sherlock. "I know John is in Cardiff, so probably you'll be even more unpleasant to me than normally, but please do tell me more about the theft."  
"Oh, Mycroft. Why don't you do us both a favour and piss off?" Sherlock was not in the mood for this.  
"Always so polite." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Mummy would be disappointed, Sherlock. What did they steal from Professor Gryffydd?"  
Sherlock snorted. "Oh, so you don't know? You seem to know so much already. Surely your minions can find that out for you. No need to trouble us both by coming here."  
"I've come here to look if you're doing well. You were on the verge of death; it is only natural that I am worried about my little brother, is it not?" Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows.  
"No," Sherlock said flatly. "Not when it comes to you. You're up to something. If you really wanted to know how I was doing, you would have called John. So what is it? You need help with something?"  
Mycroft gave him a painfully broad smile, then his face went dark. "Mr. Gryffydd has more in his possession than he realizes. Books have always been the mightiest weapons. I need to know which book he has lost."  
Sherlock smiled. "Thank you, brother. I believe you have just given me valuable insight, that might help me solve this case faster. So the book was definitely not stolen for its monetary value." He leaned back in his chair, smirking at Mycroft.  
Mycroft glared at him. "I will find ways to get you off this case within the day if you don't work along."  
"Oh." Sherlock managed to seem calm, though he really wanted to giggle with delight at getting Mycroft this worked up. "So you have interests in the book not being found."  
"Not exactly," Mycroft said, forcing himself back to calmness.  
"Then why would you take me off the case? Why do you even care about this?" Sherlock leaned forward. "Tell me, Mycroft."  
Mycroft stood up. "Thank you for your help, Sherlock. I will let you work now."  
Sherlock got up too. "Oh no, you won't," he said, glaring at Mycroft. "You know something. Tell me."  
"You first," Mycroft answered with a narrow-lipped smile.  
Sherlock's stubbornness battled his hunger for information. "Fine," he said, turning away abruptly and walking to the window to stare out. "Gryffydd has lost an actual copy of Abscondita in Aperto."  
"Ah. In that case, there is no problem at all. Thank you for reassuring me," Mycroft said.  
"Your turn," Sherlock said. "There's more to this."  
"Oh, no. Now I know that it's only the Abscondita, there is nothing that you should be worrying about in your weak state. I wish you a good recovery, dear brother. Good day."  
Sherlock stormed across the room, placing himself between Mycroft and the door. "No, I don’t think so," he hissed. "What else is there in that collection that might interest you enough to come see me?"  
Mycroft looked almost amused and shrugged. "You'd think it boring. After all it's something I am interested in."  
"Experience has taught me that when you find something interesting, brother dear, it probably means bad news for someone. And I'd rather make sure it isn't me this time."  
"Of course not," Mycroft said, as if he was shocked that Sherlock would even think that. "Nor would it harm Dr. Watson," he added quickly. "Frankly, this is about more important people than you two. Just leave it."  
"You came to me, so clearly this has got something to do with the case."  
"Like I told you, this was about a book in Gryffydd's collection. Not your case. Not everything in the world has to do with you, Sherlock. If only you would listen. Now, if you would be so good to let me out. I wouldn't like to miss my appointment with my employer."  
"Right." Sherlock shot him another glare before moving out of his way. "Give her my best."  
…  
"Was that Sherlock?" John asked, frowning, as Ian put his phone down. He had just walked past in the corridor when he had heard Ian talking in a sickeningly servile voice.  
Ian blushed as he looked up. "Yes," he said, almost defiantly. "He asked me to introduce you to my friend Oliver."  
"Ah. When can we see him?" John asked, taking out his phone.  
'Perhaps you should call me if you want to get anything done, or is Ian really that much more help?' he typed quickly.  
"I was just about to call him," Ian said, smiling. He dialled and waited for it to ring. "Oh, straight to voice mail," he said, glancing at John before leaving a message: "Hi Oliver, it's me, Ian. Just trying to reach you, because I have a friend here who would really like to meet you. Give me a call when you hear this, okay?"  
As he hung up, he looked back at John. "I guess he's busy."  
"Yes, all that while I can't wait to meet him," John said sarcastically.  
Ian frowned at him. "Is something wrong?" he asked.  
"I'm sorry. I'm a bit annoyed with Sherlock," John admitted. "He just expects me to rush off to do things while he isn't keeping me up to date with his thought process."  
"Oh." Ian nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose we could go and see if Oliver is home... I know where he lives."  
"Yeah," John nodded. "I guess that's a good idea."  
'What do I ask Oliver? Hi, I'm John, did you steal the book?' he texted, irritated that he hadn't had an answer yet.  
"I'll get the car," Ian said, heading for the door.  
"Thank you."  
"Are you two going off? Anything about my book yet?" Owain asked, coming towards the door.  
"We're working on it," John said friendly. "Sherlock probably has some ideas."  
Owain nodded. "Don't stay too long, Ian, in a few hours I'd really like a cup of tea again. Let me know when you have more information. I'd really like to have it back in my collection."  
Ian nodded as he went out to find the driver.  
John glanced at his phone again. Still no answers from Sherlock. What was he doing?   
As soon as the car stood in front of the house, he got in, and finally felt his phone buzz as he sat down. 'You'll know when you see him.'  
John rolled his eyes. 'I'm really not in the mood for cryptic crap, Sherlock. What am I looking for?'  
'Just let me know if you find him.'  
John glared daggers at his phone. "He really is the most annoying man in the world," he mumbled, knowing that Ian was listening. It might help to discourage the young man's interest in Sherlock, he hoped.  
Ian frowned. "He's a genius, isn't he? I mean, an actual genius. I think they are always a bit... special."  
John pulled up his eyebrow. "That's one way to put it, yeah. At the moment I'd rather go with 'insufferable dick who thinks everyone else is an idiot'."  
Ian snorted. "Oh, I'm sure he can't be that bad."  
John looked away and rolled his eyes. "So, what kind of person is this Oliver?"  
"Oh," Ian laughed. "He's this really funny geeky type. I met him through friends and found out he shares my passion for vintage graphic novels. He was really impressed by my collection."  
"Ah, so you're also a book collector," John smiled. "We once had this case we called the Geek Interpreter. So, are you two just friends, or?"  
"Oh yeah," Ian laughed. "Though at one point while he was staying at Gryffydd Hall, I kind of got the feeling he was flirting with me. But he's really not my type." Ian stopped himself and blushed.  
John thought he could imagine what Ian's type looked like, and that it was quite similar to his own. He could also imagine that if Oliver was the thief, he would easily get into flirting with Owain's nephew.  
Ian looked out the window. "Oh," he said. "Here we are."  
The car stopped in front of a block of flats and Ian got out, walking to one of the doors. John followed, quickly checking if he hadn't missed any messages from Sherlock.  
Ian stopped at the doorphone, looking puzzled. "This can't be right," he said.  
"What's wrong?"  
"His name isn't here," Ian said, frowning at the labels. "I'm sure it's the right door, but where it is supposed to say 'Burghess', it says 'Henley' instead.”  
John sighed. "I think Sherlock already expected this."  
"Really? How could he have?" Ian looked back at the labels. "I don't understand this."  
"This might hurt, Ian, but possibly Oliver was not who he told you he was. I think that Sherlock believes that he used his friendship with you to get into your uncle's house," John explained quietly.  
Ian stood frozen for a moment, absorbing the words. "No," he said. "He was genuine. It must be some mistake. Maybe he moved and just hasn't told me yet." He got his phone out of his pocket. "I'm gonna talk to Sherlock. Clear this up."  
"Uhm, wait, I'll call him." If Ian was already shocked and denying everything when John carefully suggested Oliver's betrayal, he really didn't want to know how the boy would react to Sherlock's way of telling him. "Really, let me."  
Ian practically pouted, but then nodded. "Okay."  
John nodded at him and took his phone. "Sherlock? It turns out Oliver has given Ian a false address, of a certain Henley. I take it you expected this?"  
"Of course. His real name is Thomas Elton and he is a minor con artist from Belfast. I suspect this particular job was done on request."  
John carefully glanced at Ian. "Is he dangerous? Where do you think we can find him?"  
"Oh no, he's strictly into assuming identities to get close to the object he is seeking, and once he's obtained it, he withdraws. He is back in Belfast it would seem. Maybe I should go talk to him."  
"No, you can stay in London. Does it help us any further if I find him, or should we concentrate on his employer?"  
"We definitely need to find the employer. And therefore I think we need to talk to Thomas Elton. But there are also some other avenues that need exploring. You must find out more about the convention Gryffydd went to and who it was that asked for more information on the book."  
"Alright. I'll talk to Professor Gryffydd, and then I'll go to Belfast as soon as I can. I'll call you tonight. Feel free to text your ideas in the mean time," John said.   
"I will." Sherlock thought for a moment and then added: "I love you."  
John couldn't suppress a broad smile. "You too. Bye."  
He looked at Ian. "I'm sorry, but it is true. Sherlock has discovered that Oliver's real name is Thomas Elton, and he lives in Belfast. I understand if you want to confront him with this. You could join me?" John found it a lot easier to be friendly to Ian after hearing Sherlock in person, certainly with the detective even taking the time to tell him he loved him.  
Ian almost looked devastated. "Yes, I suppose so."  
"I'm really sorry, Ian." John put a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder for a moment, then looked back at the car. "I need to ask your uncle a few more questions, and then we should leave for Belfast immediately. The faster we are, the easier it will be to bring the book back." It would be hard enough already, as days had passed since the theft and it could easily be sold, if that was the thief's purpose.


	28. Chapter 28

John sighed. When Ian had brought him to Oliver's house earlier, he had hoped the case would be solved soon. He should have known the bird had flown. So here he was, in a car that would bring him to Belfast, rather than London. It was a shame that Sherlock needed his rest and couldn't join him. At least his talk with Owain had helped Sherlock a little, but the end was nowhere in sight. Ian was quietly sitting next to him, probably trying to process the fact that his geeky friend didn't really exist. "Are you okay?" John asked, a bit worried by the normally chatty man's pale, sad look.  
Ian nodded, still looking out the window. Then he took a deep breath. "I can't help but feel that this is all my fault. If I hadn't been so horribly naive, none of this would have happened."  
John sympathetically shook his head. "Sherlock told me this Thomas is a professional. It's his job to fool people into trusting him. Don't blame yourself for this."  
"Sherlock said that?" Ian smiled a little.  
John decided to grant Ian this to make him feel better, and nodded.  
Ian relaxed visibly. He sat for a while, smiling, then spoke again. "It's really amazing how he could find out so much, in such a short time, despite being so far away."  
"He's a genius after all," John shrugged, smiling. Of course he is amazing. Part of him was actually glad that Ian didn't see Sherlock as a freak, like most people did.  
Ian nodded. "I hope I get to thank him in person when all this is over," he said.  
They fell silent again. John took his phone to text Sherlock. 'Everything okay? Long rides are boring. Don't forget to eat.'  
'Ate something yesterday. I know some cures for boredom, but I don't think they will be much help right now.'  
'Shut up. I miss you. Eat!'  
'Yes, doctor.'  
"Anything new on the case?" Ian asked eagerly.  
John smirked at his phone for a moment. "Not really. Sherlock thought it possible that the convention your uncle went to was set up by the thief, but I'm not sure. After all Owain told me that there were about 100 participants and that doesn't seem suspiciously few for this kind of thing."  
"Oh." Ian thought about it for a moment. "But isn't it too much of a coincidence, that uncle had to bring pictures of the very book that went missing while he was gone?"  
"Hmm. Probably. Do the friends you went to visit know Thomas as well?"  
"Yes. It was Claire who introduced us... " Ian frowned. "Do you think she is part of this too?"  
"Not necessarily," John said quickly. He didn't need Ian to distrust all of his friends in the future. "But it could have been his idea to lure you away from the house too, so he was free to steal the book. Perhaps he told Claire that you were free that weekend, or something like that."  
"I can ask her," Ian suggested, taking his phone out of his pocket.  
John gave him an encouraging nod.  
Ian's entire demeanour changed as he spoke on the phone. "Claire, honey... Yes, none other..." He laughed and seemed more like a young university student than like the suited assistant/butler existing solely to serve his uncle's every whim. As he asked her about 'Oliver' and his last visit, he was joking and teasing, and somehow his accent seemed less obvious.  
John was surprised to hear Ian like that, all the sadness about his friend forgotten, at least for the duration of the phone call. It was almost a relief when Ian put his phone away. "What did she say?"  
"You were right," Ian answered. "It was in fact 'Oliver' who suggested the get-together, but then he called and cancelled at the last moment."  
"Then probably the convention was organised for the same reason," John nodded, texting the new information to Sherlock.  
Sherlock's reply came a few minutes later: 'Good job. This narrows down potential employers.'  
…  
John woke up when the car stopped in front of the expensive hotel. The dull monotony of the landscape after sunset had caused him to drift off about an hour ago.   
"We're here," Ian said with a smile, pocketing his phone. He got out and went round the back to collect their bags.  
John stepped out of the car and took a deep breath of fresh air. "Can I help?" he asked, pointing at the bags.  
Ian smiled at him. "No, it's okay. I’ve got them." He nodded at the chauffeur who drove off. "Shall we?"  
"Yeah." They walked into the reception hall, where John was glad to let Ian arrange their rooms.  
Ian handed John his key. "I suppose you want to get settled in," he said. "But I thought we might go out and get something to eat. I'm famished."  
"Thanks. I'll just dump my bag and then I'll join you." A few minutes later, he met Ian again in the hall.  
Ian had his phone out and was busy texting.  
John glanced curiously at Ian's phone. "Ready to go?"  
Ian hit 'send' and nodded. "Fancy anything in particular?" he asked.  
"As long as I can eat it," John shrugged.  
Ian laughed. "Pizza?"  
"Good idea," John smiled.  
...  
Dinner didn't take too long, and they agreed that they would try to find Thomas Elton the next day. Once back in his room, John only unpacked some fresh clothes for the next morning, hoping they wouldn't have to stay long, and went to have a quick shower. Feeling refreshed, he sat down on the bed and called Sherlock.  
Sherlock had been thinking on the sofa when the phone interrupted him. When he saw John's name on the display he bit back the irritated response that had been forming in his mind. "Hi," he said, his voice filled with warmth and longing.  
"Hello, love. Any new thoughts on the case?"  
"Many, but they can wait. How have you been?"  
"Fine. Ian is a little annoying sometimes. I'm glad he admires you, but he shouldn't exaggerate."  
"He admires me?" Sherlock chuckled. "How exactly does he exaggerate that?" he asked teasingly.  
"You know. He's far too interested in you for his own good," John grinned.  
"Oh. Well, that's not good." Sherlock couldn't keep the mirth out of his voice. "Doesn't he realise that I am very much spoken for?"  
"Don't think so. If he gets too bad, I'll remind him," John smirked. "So, how are you doing?"  
"The case keeps me from getting bored out of my mind, but I miss you," Sherlock admitted.  
"I miss you too. This bed is far too big to sleep in alone."  
"I could come join you..." Sherlock knew the answer, but couldn't resist suggesting it. Not only did he desperately need to get out of the flat, but after having been so constantly close for weeks on end, John's absence was becoming unbearable.  
John sighed. "You know why you can't. Don't make it worse."  
"I know why you think I shouldn't. That doesn't mean I have to like it."  
"I know. I hope I'll soon be home. Do you have any idea where exactly Thomas Elton lives?"  
"Yes, I'll text you the details later. He is currently working under another name, already involved in a new scheme it seems."  
"Okay, thanks." For a moment, a silence fell, but John didn't want to put the phone down. "Are you working on something right now, or could you do with... some relaxation?"

Sherlock smiled. "What did you have in mind?"  
"Dunno. I know I could do with a wank, and it's a lot nicer if I can at least hear you."  
Sherlock chuckled and let his voice descend to John's favourite level. "Oh... I see your point."  
John grinned. "I love you."  
"Oh, I love you too," Sherlock said, his smile widening. "And I do miss you so terribly. The bed is so cold and empty without you."  
"If I were there, I would definitely do something about the cold," John purred. "I'm going to kiss every inch of your body when I get home."  
"I'll hold you to that promise, you know," Sherlock said, finding himself being quite affected by the conversation.  
"Good." John let his left hand slip into his pants. "I want you."  
"I want you too," Sherlock said, "I want you to come home so I can kiss you and touch you and rip all your clothes off."  
John moaned and pushed his pants down. It was as if Sherlock's voice was vibrating through him. "I want your cock in my mouth until you are aching to come, and then I want you to ride me." His hand sped up, leaving him breathless.  
"Oh god," Sherlock shuddered at John's words. "I want that too. But most of all I want to have you. To take you in every position you can possibly imagine."  
John groaned. "I'm not going to last long if we keep talking like this. Are you- are you also touching yourself?"  
Sherlock almost laughed. "It's kind of hard with this stupid thing on my arm, if I have to hold the phone too, y'know. Hang on, let me put you on speaker."  
"Yeah. I wish I could touch you, Sherlock." John slowed down his strokes, waiting for Sherlock to join him.  
Having put down the phone Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers and slipped his hand inside. "What would you do if you could?"  
"Kiss you senseless, for a start." John's lips were virtually aching for a kiss. "What would you want me to do?"  
"Well, that..." Sherlock said. "And then I'd want you to unbutton my shirt, and let your hands slide inside to touch me."  
"Hm, yes..." John lost track for a moment. "I want to lick down your stomach. Bite your hip."  
"I think you know exactly what I'd want you to do then," Sherlock said, closing his eyes, his breathing deep and quick.  
"God," John moaned, his hand repeatedly flicking over the head of his cock. "I wish you were here."  
"I wish you were here, John, because that would mean you wouldn't have to go out working on the case in the morning and I could just keep you in bed all day, doing every conceivable thing to you."  
"Close," John panted, the phone almost slipping out of his hand. He went to stroking his whole length again in a quick pace.  
"Me too," Sherlock gasped, his hand moving fast, still inside his trousers. This was going to make a mess, but he just didn't care.  
"Come with me," John almost begged, then he gasped and spilled over his hand. "Sherlock."  
"Oh god." The words were more than Sherlock could take and he followed only seconds behind John.  
John just lay panting, his hand still on his cock, relishing Sherlock's moans. "I love you," he whispered.  
"I love you too," Sherlock gasped, once he was able to speak again.  
John let out a happy sigh. "You know," he suddenly said smugly, "you just confessed that you like being in bed with me even more than being on this case."  
"Shut up," Sherlock said with a laugh. "You know that if I had you in my bed and no case, I'd be driving both of us insane. Why can't I have both?"  
John chuckled. "Still, I'm flattered."  
"You should be."  
"Are you going to sleep tonight?"  
"Probably not."  
"Hm. As long as you make sure you have some energy left by the time I come home." John yawned and rolled on his side to take some tissues and clean himself up a bit, then pulled the blankets over himself. "Goodnight, Sherlock."  
"Goodnight John," Sherlock said, before getting to his feet and heading for the shower.


	29. Chapter 29

The next morning, John was in a good mood. Like they had agreed, he and Ian met early in the hotel's breakfast room, and it wasn't long before a text arrived from Sherlock, indicating an address where Thomas Elton was probably staying at the moment. They took a cab and arrived at a tall, narrow white house. Behind one of the two lower windows, a sign said "ROOMS FOR RENT" in screaming red letters. John rang the bell. The sound of clicking heels on stone tiles approached and the door was opened by a woman.  
"Hello, boys." She had a hoarse voice and stretched her words so much it was almost ridiculous. Her clothes had probably fit her twenty years ago, but apparently the only requirement she had in mind for her attire was that the brand should be clearly visible. "Looking for a room?" She only had eyes for Ian.  
John had to concentrate to keep his eyebrows in place. "Uhm, no. John Watson and Ian Gryffydd. We would like to ask if you could help us with an investigation."  
"Shame," she said slowly, her eyes still pinned on Ian, before she seemed to wake up from a trance and looked at John. "I am Miss Leia. If you two are on an investigation, then why aren't you wearing uniforms?" She almost pouted.  
Ian blushed spectacularly. "Um... I... We're looking for Oliv... I mean Mike Summers."  
"Ah, Mikey! He's only lived here for a few days. Such a sweetheart. He's out now, but I'm sure he won't be long. Why don't you two come in?" she said, her eyes once again on Ian as if he were a good-looking pastry.  
John suppressed a sigh. He could only hope it wouldn't be long before Elton came back, if his absence meant that they had to keep this obtrusive woman company.  
"Look, Mikey bought me these flowers," she said as she waddled in front of them through the corridor. A bouquet in clashing colours was standing on a low table. "He really knows how to get to a woman's heart. But I'm sure you do, too, pretty." She suddenly stopped and turned around so Ian almost bumped into her.  
Ian yelped and jumped back. Then he tried to disguise it with an unconvincing cough.  
John somehow managed to keep his face straight without pulling a muscle.  
"So nervous... You should relax a little, pretty," Miss Leia said, walking a full circle around Ian before she opened a door and led them to her own living room. "Sit down. Do you want coffee, or something stronger?"  
"I'm fine, thanks," John said quickly.  
"And you probably don't even dare to ask for anything," Leia amusedly said to Ian, meanwhile pouring herself a double sherry. "So, what do you need from Mikey?" She didn't wait for an answer. "I had a lot of fun with him last night. Oh no, nothing like that," she added quickly, even though no-one would even have had the chance to suggest anything, "but we had a little drinking game. He easily drank me under the table, and believe me, a lot is needed for that. But what do you want? He's a student, and quite the party animal..."  
"But Oli... I mean, Mike doesn't drink..." Ian looked confused and glanced nervously at John.  
"Of course he does! You clearly don't know him that well if you think that." Miss Leia looked at Ian as if he was a child that had mispronounced something in a funny way.  
Ian blushed again and leaned a little towards John. "Are you sure this is the right guy? It doesn't sound like him at all," he said in a hushed voice.  
John shrugged. "Sherlock seemed quite certain about it... It's possible that he changes his character to connect with the people he wants steal from," he suggested in a whisper.  
"What are you boys whispering now? Talking about me?" Leia asked hopefully. Then something outside the window caught her eye. "Ah, you're lucky! Mikey's returning from the shop! I hope he brought my chocolates."  
Ian turned to the door, waiting apprehensively. It opened and a young man, tanned, with bleached hair and a shirt that was so tight there were probably laws against it, came in, carrying a plastic shopping bag. "Oh Miss Leia, I couldn't..." he began, then stopped and stared at Ian.  
"O... Oliver?" Ian stammered.  
The other man turned on his heel and sprinted for the front door.  
John immediately jumped up and ran after him. There was no time to wait for Ian to get over his shock.  
"What's all this? I demand an explanation!" Miss Leia screamed.  
Ian hastily got to his feet, made an unintelligible excuse to Miss Leia and hurried after John.  
Elton was out the door and sprinted down the street. His legs were longer than John's, and the doctor had to give all he had to come even with him. He gave a firm push against his back so the man stumbled and fell on the pavement, but he pulled John over himself and rolled over. They fought for some time before John had him down, the other man's face pressed against the dirty stones.  
Ian finally caught up with them, but clearly had no idea what to do. He just stood there, looking rather helpless.  
"Oliver?"  
"Get off me," the man hissed.  
"Thomas Elton, hmm? The police will be glad to see you," John said. "Who did you work for, stealing the Abscondita in Aperto?"  
"How the fuck should I know," Elton growled, trying to struggle free. "They never tell me any names, do they? I just got a title, a date and a place of delivery."  
"And where did you deliver it?" John asked, meanwhile sending a desperate look at Ian and nodding at the right pocket of his trousers, where he kept his phone.  
Ian frowned at him, clearly not getting what he wanted him to do.  
Elton groaned. "Let me go and I'll tell you."  
"Ha-ha," John said sarcastically. "The police -" he looked up at Ian - "will be here any minute. You're not going anywhere, so you can as well tell me right now."  
"Screw you," Elton hissed.  
"You already called the police?" Ian asked. "When did you do that?"  
John rolled his eyes and sighed. Sometimes, just sometimes, he knew exactly how Sherlock must feel around all the idiots in the world. "You are going to do that, Ian," he said, putting more pressure on his knee that was pressed in Thomas' back.  
"Oh..." Ian fumbled for his phone. After he had dialled, he looked at John. "What do I say?"  
"Oh god," John mumbled, pushing the criminal's face harder into the pavement when he felt him sniggering under his hands. "That we have Thomas Elton, a thief that has many crimes behind his name, and that I would appreciate it if they came to pick him up before I end up with a massive muscle burn."  
"Oh, of course," Ian said. Then the phone was answered. "Um, yeah, hi. My name is Ian Gryffydd. We have a criminal here." He turned away to look for house numbers or street signs.  
…  
"Hello, Sherlock? We've got Thomas Elton. He's in custody now. He wouldn't talk to me, but the police managed to make a deal with him, and he told them that he delivered the book in Blackpool, in an antiques shop. Where the hell are you? I hate talking to voicemail. Anyway, Ian and I are going to pick up our stuff from the hotel now, and then we're off to Blackpool. Call me as soon as you've heard this." John put away his phone, stretching his left arm  
It was nearly thirty minutes later, when Sherlock finally called. "Blackpool? Are you serious?" he said in way of greeting.  
"Yeah, hi Sherlock, we're in the car now. Where were you?" John answered.  
"At the shop," Sherlock huffed. "Don't ask..."  
John suppressed a chuckle. "I won't ask, I'm only glad that that means you have considered the possibility of eating. So, what are your thoughts on Blackpool?"  
"I'm not sure. In a way it makes sense, since that was where the convention was held as well, and there obviously is a connection. But it also seems almost too convenient. Text me the name and address of the shop and I'll see what I can come up with."  
"Alright. Anything else you have found out?" John asked.  
"Yes. It turns out there was one other known copy of the Abscondita. It was last seen in Brazil five years ago, but disappeared. The owner could not prove its existence, so the alleged theft was never investigated."  
"Sherlock, you are not going to Brazil," John said immediately.  
Sherlock laughed. "Of course not. That was five years ago."  
"Do you think it could have been the same thief?"  
"It cannot be ruled out."  
John nodded, even though Sherlock couldn't see him. "Anything special we should look for in the antiques shop?"  
"I doubt the book will be on display. They did not steal it to sell it at the shop. What I need is information on the people working there or anyone connected to the shop in some way."  
"Alright. I'll do what I can," John said.  
"Thank you. And hurry, so you can come home. I miss you even more after last night."  
"Me too, but I can hardly ask the driver to double the speed limits," John smiled. "See you soon."  
Ian glanced at him. "Anything new?" he asked with a frown.  
"There is another copy of the book, possibly in the possession of the thief," John answered.  
"Oh..." Ian thought for a moment. "So, why has it become so urgent?"  
"Urgent - oh, that. That was just, uhm, a little joke between Sherlock and me. Don't worry about it."  
Ian did not seem totally convinced, but didn't comment.


	30. Chapter 30

By the time they finally arrived in Blackpool, John was almost glad that Sherlock wasn't with them. If all that sitting in a car bored him out of his mind, he really didn't want to know in what state the detective would be. "Alright, let's find this shop," he said to Ian.  
Ian nodded. "Just give the address to the driver," he said and yawned.  
"Didn't sleep well last night?" John asked after he had done what Ian said.  
"No, fine," Ian said, looking a bit sheepish. "It's just all this sitting still. It kind of wears me down."  
"Yeah, same here. It's a good thing we’ve had the adrenalin rush of catching Elton this morning."  
Ian nodded. "I wasn't much use though, was I?"  
"It's okay. You're just not used to this kind of situations, but you did quite well - just a little slowly," John said with a good-natured smile.  
Ian smiled. "Maybe I'll learn in time," he said with a distant look in his eyes.  
John frowned and cleared his throat. "Who knows," he said neutrally.  
"You're used to that kind of thing, right? I mean, working with Sherlock, you probably chase down criminals like that all the time."  
"Yeah, well, it has happened before, now and then," John shrugged.  
Ian smiled and seemed lost in contemplation for a while.  
"Here we are," the driver said.  
John was just going to ask if he was sure, because he didn't see any shops, when he saw the small, shabby sign on one of the houses that said 'Antiques'. "They're not exactly drawing the attention of their customers," he mumbled.  
"It must be the kind of shop that relies on word-of-mouth," Ian said, as he got out of the car. "It's not unusual in antiques and rare collectibles."  
John nodded. "Probably. We'll just walk in and pretend we're generally interested in antique stuff. Sherlock asked us to observe the people who work there."  
"Sure." Ian opened the door to the shop and held it for John.  
They walked in and an old shop bell sounded. The place was a little messy; John bumped his shin into one of the lower handles of a wooden chest of drawers when he walked in. There was no-one in, and they had had two full minutes of looking around before there were stumbling sounds from the back of the shop.  
The man who made his way through the clutter seemed to be in his late fifties. His hair was white but his beard still had streaks of dark in it. The eyes behind the round glasses looked tired and a bit confused. "Can I help you?" he asked.  
"Just looking around, if that's okay," John said. "You seem to have quite the collection here." He nodded at an expensive-looking mahogany table.  
"Yes," the man said, looking at them intently.  
"So, ehm, have you had this shop for long? We love antiquities, you see, but we only recently heard about this place from a friend," John said.  
"Yes," the man said. "I've been here for fifteen years now. Used to have a partner, but he died last year."  
"Oh, I'm sorry," John said. "It must be quite a change to work alone after all this time. Or perhaps you have some assistance in the shop now?"  
"No," the man shook his head. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"  
"No, just looking. I always think it's comforting to walk between aged furniture. It's like sniffing an old book," John said with a reassuring smile. He went to join Ian. "Seen anything interesting yet?" he asked softly.  
Ian smiled at him. "Oh, plenty," he said. "But not anything I need."  
For a moment, John wondered if Ian was really talking about the bloody furniture, or if he had actually understood that playing a role, they would be less suspicious. He walked through to a large bookcase that contained about a dozen old-looking books. The brown backs didn't tell him much, and he waited until Ian had got this far too. "Anything familiar?"  
Ian studied the books. "No," he said in a hushed voice. He leaned in a little closer. "What should we do?"  
"I think we've seen all we can get from here. We'll only draw attention to ourselves if we ask him for other books. We should go and tell Sherlock what we've learned. If this man has the book, we need to think out a strategy to find it."  
"Okay," Ian said in a hushed voice before turning away from the books. "That really is a lovely vase," he said, going over to have a closer look. "It would look so fetching on the mantelpiece, don't you think?" He glanced quickly at John, then turned to the man who was still watching them. "How much is it, Mr ...?"  
"Fitzroy," the man grumbled. "And the vase is 20 pounds."  
Ian turned to John with a smile. "Can we get it? Please?"  
John frowned for a moment, but quickly cleared his face. "Of course. 20 certainly doesn't seem too much for it," he said, giving it a good look as if he knew quite a lot more about antiques than he actually did. "Can you wrap it for us, please?" he asked Fitzroy.  
The man nodded and went to pick up the vase.  
Ian beamed at John. "Thank you," he said.  
John paid and they left the shop with the vase. After putting it in the trunk of the car, that had been parked in the next street, John called Sherlock and told him everything about the shop.  
…  
John fidgeted in the car. It wasn't the most comfortable place to stay, certainly not after what felt like a whole day sitting in it to get to Blackpool, but it was the easiest way to observe the shop while they were waiting for their appointment with Mr. Fitzroy. Sherlock had advised them to do some burglary, but John had found an easier way in making a call to the shop keeper, pretending to be interested in one of the more expensive wardrobes. Fitzroy had only wanted to see them after closing time though, so John and Ian were reduced to counting the minutes.  
Ian was toying with his phone, growing increasingly restless. "So," he asked. "What exactly am I supposed to do?"  
"I propose you find a way in from the back of the building," John said. They had taken a walk earlier to check if there was an entry in the parallel street, which fortunately was the case. "It will be too suspicious if you disappear from the shop after you've gone in with me, so the only problem would be if he has locked the back door. I guess that in that case, you'd better come back and do nothing so we can have another attempt at getting in later - unless you know how to pick a lock?"  
Ian snorted. "No, that's not exactly one of my skills. Should I wait in the car when you go in, or leave before?"  
"Just wait a little, and make sure he can't see you from the shop. Get in quietly, and find the book as quickly as you can. I won't be able to distract him forever, he'll want me to buy something if I stay too long." It felt like he was giving orders to a private.  
Ian nodded.  
"Okay. I'll be a few minutes early, but I'm going in. Are you ready?" John asked. He still wasn't completely sure to trust Ian with finding the book, but it was the best chance they had. After all, Ian would recognise it a lot faster, and John had more experience in distracting people.  
Ian did not look remotely ready, but he nodded again. "Yes. As ready as I'll ever be."  
"Alright." John looked at him for a moment. "Good luck." Then he turned around and went to the shop, hoping their plan would work.  
Fitzroy was waiting behind the counter, fiddling with the cash register, which seemed to be an antique too. When John entered, he looked up and nodded in greeting. "A wardrobe, right?" he asked curtly.  
"Eh, yeah, good evening. You had this very nice one, a little further in the shop. I don't remember very well where it stood, but it was beautiful. I'd really like to have a second look," John said.  
Fitzroy sighed, seeming a little annoyed, and came round to the front of the counter. "I think I know which one you mean," he said as he led the way to the back of the shop.  
"Hmm, I'm not sure it was this one," John frowned as they arrived at the wardrobe. "It was over there, I'm quite sure..."  
Fitzroy was definitely annoyed now. "Are you sure? This one is really much handsomer. And in better condition."  
"Oh, but I like the fact that the other really looks old." John walked slowly to the other wardrobe.  
"Yes, this was it. Let me see." He opened the doors and started inspecting the inside, taking his time.  
Fitzroy just stood there, watching John as he examined the wardrobe. It was almost as if he expected John to try and sneak it into his pocket and take off with it.  
Suddenly he turned his head towards the door behind the counter. "What was that?" he said. "Did you hear something?"  
John had only just kept himself from flinching at the sound. Damn, Ian. "No, I didn't hear anything," he answered, innocently looking back at Fitzroy. "You know, I really love the way the figures in the door are cut out."  
"Hmm?" Fitzroy was not looking at him, but took a step towards the door, clearly listening for other sounds. The faint but unmistakable sound of breaking glass could be heard.  
John sighed under his breath, but put on a confused face. "Now I did hear something. Perhaps there's been an accident out front? Should we go and look?" He pointed at the door.  
"That's not from outside," Fitzroy grumbled, shooting John a suspicious look before hurrying to the door behind the counter.  
John cursed wordlessly and followed him. "What do you think it was?" he asked Fitzroy.  
Fitzroy didn't answer as he flung the door open and rushed through. He made his way through the bleak, nearly empty sitting room, to the kitchen, where Ian was kneeling on the floor, picking up the pieces of a large glass jar.  
He looked up and whimpered as he saw the man approaching. "I... I'm sorry," he stammered.  
Behind Fitzroy's back, John had quickly taken his phone and texted 'Trouble' to Sherlock. He gave Ian a desperate look. "What are you doing here, Robert?" he asked, using the first false name that came to mind.  
"Er... I..." Ian fumbled for words. "I was looking for you?"  
"In my kitchen?" Fitzroy asked, enraged. "Looking for things to steal, more likely! So that's what you two are? Thiefs!" He went to the phone mounted on the wall. "I'm calling the police, I am," he said as he began dialling.  
"Perhaps you want to wait with that..." John said calmly. "What if they find out that you stole something first?"  
"And what might that be?" Fitzroy sneered as he turned towards John. Behind him, Ian caught John's eyes and pointed into the living room.  
"A book," John said challengingly, giving a short nod to Ian to indicate that he had understood him.  
"I have many books," Fitzroy answered calmly. "All bought and paid for." He listened to a voice on the other end of the line. "The police please, Miss," he said. "I need to report a burglary."  
John rolled his eyes, turned around and hurried to the living room. "Ian," he hissed. They had to be quick, only having as long as Fitzroy was chained to his landline.  
"Hey, where are you going?" Fitzroy called after John. As Ian passed him he reached out and grabbed his sleeve. "Oh, you're staying here, boy," he snarled.  
John hesitated for a moment, but then went on. He probably didn't have enough time to get Ian free. He sat on his knees in front of the bookcase, that was filled much more than the one in Fitzroy's shop. Apparently the man was too fond of old books to sell them, or maybe he had another purpose for them. No time to think about that now. John let his finger trail along the backs of oldest-looking books, until he found one with ornaments on the cover. He pulled it out to look at the front.  
There was a clatter and then a thump from the kitchen. A moment later, Ian was beside him. "That's the one," he said. Then he frowned. "Wait a minute..." He reached out and pulled a book from a higher shelf. He held it next to the one John had. "Oh my god," Ian exclaimed. "He's got them both."  
John gave him an appreciative look. "That proves it," he nodded. "Glad you got away from him."  
Ian smiled modestly. "Wasn't exactly hard." He looked over his shoulder towards the kitchen and then suddenly gave John a hard push. "Watch out!" he cried as he let himself fall to the other side, just in time to avoid the knife that was thrust forward.  
John landed painfully on his right arm, but was grateful as he looked up and saw Fitzroy, holding the kitchen knife with a too-wide grin on his face. "Mr. Fitzroy, put that down, please. This really isn't necessary."  
Fitzroy turned and descended slowly on John. But then Ian's leg shot out, caught him behind the knees and sent him stumbling into the bookcase.  
"Get the knife," Ian cried, as he twisted around, trying to catch hold of Fitzroy's legs.  
John moved quickly, rolling over and kicking the knife out of the older man's hand, then picking it up and pointing it at him. "I'd advise you to stay calm until the police arrives, Mr. Fitzroy. Meanwhile you can explain to us why you had Mr. Elton steal the Abscondita for you, while you already had the other copy."  
"It's hidden in there," Fitzroy said, his eyes taking on a strange gleam. "The truth... I looked for years. Examined every letter of that book. And then I realised... You have to have them both... Then it becomes clear..." Suddenly he lunged forward.  
John leapt backwards and quickly swung his arm away so Fitzroy wouldn't get to the knife, but the other man was too fast and despite John's movement, the knife ended up in Fitzroy's stomach. The man sank down on his knees, gurgling, and for a second John was only looking in shock.  
Fitzroy reached for the book in John's hand. "The truth..." he muttered, and then he collapsed.  
John kneeled next to him and laid him on his back. The knife had gone rather deep, so he knew he would do more damage if he tried to get it out. He swallowed. "Give me something to stop the bleeding, Ian, and call an ambulance." He pressed his fingers to Fitzroy's neck, finding a weak pulse.  
Ian nodded and got to his feet. A moment later he handed John a tea towel from the kitchen. "Will this do?" he asked as he got his phone out and started dialling.  
John carefully pressed the towel around the knife. "I'm afraid I'll need some more in a minute, but make your call first. Mr. Fitzroy, can you hear me?" He breathed deep to compose himself. About everything that could possibly have gone wrong about this, had done so.


	31. Chapter 31

"Sherlock, I'm coming home," John said immediately when he heard Sherlock pick up his phone. He sounded tired. The ambulance had left about ten minutes ago, and now there was a lot of fuss going on inside the shop, with the police investigating what had happened. John had gone just outside the shop door, needing some air.  
"John," Sherlock's voice was almost shaking with relief. "What happened? Your message just said 'trouble' and I didn't know if I should call you or...?"  
"I'm fine," John said quickly. "Fitzroy, on the other hand..." He sighed. "He's in hospital. Things went wrong, but we have the books. He was going on about finding the truth, but he needed to study both books..." John knew he wasn't talking very coherently, but he felt too exhausted. He just wanted to be home, hugging Sherlock.  
"Good work, John," Sherlock said. "Come home as fast as you can." He wanted to add 'with the books', but was pretty sure that that was not what John wanted to hear right now. And surely he'd bring them anyway.  
"I will," John nodded. He didn't really want to put his phone away, but ended the call anyway, then turned around to Ian, who had followed him out. "Do you think they need much more time now?" he asked, looking into the shop.  
Ian shook his head. "No, they are wrapping things up."  
"They'll want to know about how Fitzroy got wounded," John sighed. He rubbed his hands over his face. "I wish I was home."  
"I already told them everything," Ian answered. "Well, almost everything. I might have sort of given them the impression that I came with you through the shop." He blushed. "I told them that you were very affected by what happened, and I think they'll be satisfied, at least for now, if you just confirm my statement."  
Half an hour later, they could finally get in the car. It was dark and John felt horrid. He was quiet for a long time. "I haven't thanked you yet," he said eventually to Ian. "You saved both our lives when he attacked us. You've really done well."  
"Thank you," Ian said, blushing. "I just acted on instinct I suppose. I didn't really have time to think, when I saw the knife."  
John nodded. "Thank you. You're stronger than you look, if you don't mind me saying so."  
"Not really that strong," Ian said with a chuckle. "I'm just fast. I used to play rugby, so I know how to bring a man down, using his own momentum against him."  
"Really?" John smiled. "I also played rugby. It was a long time ago though. Turns out to be useful knowledge, anyway."  
"Very," Ian smiled. "Though I never would have expected it to come in handy quite like that."  
"I've often found that fighting skills are good to have when you're chasing a criminal," John said with a smile.  
"Yes. Sherlock must be glad to have a friend like you. A man in his profession can never have enough people watching his back I suppose."  
John smiled. "Yeah. And even then he manages to get himself hurt."  
"Yes, so I could see." Ian was silent for a moment, then added: "It felt great in a way. Taking him down like that. Twice. I mean, it was horrible about the knife, but that was not your fault or mine. He shouldn't have charged you like that." He hesitated. "Does it always feel like that? Do you feel a rush when you're bringing down a criminal?"  
John sighed. "It's quite a rush, yeah, feeling the adrenalin of being in danger. But I wouldn't really say it was great. Not this time, at least." And he felt much, much better when Sherlock was by his side.  
"Maybe... " Ian hesitated again. "Maybe some time, if you need an extra backup, I could go with you on a case. You know, help out. Look out for Sherlock when he's working... I would really like to see him work."  
"Oh." John was a little surprised, even though perhaps he should have seen this coming. "That's really nice of you, but you know. Sherlock isn't the easiest person to work with. I'm not sure he would be okay with someone else coming with us, unless there was a good reason."  
"But we had such great talks on the phone. I'm sure he would trust me. I could be really useful, you know."  
John sighed. "Ian... I know Sherlock can be charming, but he's not always like he is the first time you meet him. I'm sure you would be useful, but Sherlock wouldn't always see it like that."  
"Well, maybe if he got a chance to know me better..."  
John looked at him for a few seconds. "Ian, can I ask you a personal question?"  
Ian bit his lip, as if he knew what was coming. He nodded once.  
"Are you falling in love with Sherlock?"  
Ian looked away, clearly embarrassed. "I... I don't know," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper. "I've only met him once, but... But I really like him."  
John bit his lip. Ian would obviously be hurt if he just told him the truth, but on the other hand, it would also hurt him if he let him try to get closer to Sherlock - and he's mine. He shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Ian, I have to tell you that... Sherlock isn't single. He's in a relationship. Quite a stable one. I think it's better to tell you..."  
Ian didn't respond at first. Then he nodded slightly. Keeping his face turned away he muttered: "Yes. Thanks for telling me."  
"I'm sorry. Of course you're always welcome to come over for a cup of tea," John said awkwardly.  
Ian huffed. "Yes, that would be lovely," he said, a definite note of sarcasm in his voice. "Because I'd really love the chance to run into that special someone."  
John didn't react and looked at his knees. The rest of their ride passed in uncomfortable silence. John really wished he would be home soon. When they were about ten minutes from Baker Street, he texted to Sherlock that he was almost there.  
As soon as Sherlock received the text from John, he grabbed his jacket and rushed down the stairs. As he stood waiting by the curb, he could hardly keep still with anticipation.  
"Thank you for the lift," John said to Ian. "And for wanting to send the books to Sherlock as soon as the police lets them go."  
"It's me and uncle who owe you thanks," Ian said, sounding very formal. "You both did an amazing job."  
"You're welcome. I think Sherlock is very grateful to both of you for giving him an interesting case. Do you want to come in, or would you rather go straight home?"  
Ian frowned. "I think I better get back to uncle," he said, sounding very defeated.  
"Alright. Have a good journey," John said. He could see Sherlock standing on the pavement and his impatience to get out of the car was growing. "Goodbye."  
As Sherlock saw the car approaching, his heart jumped into his throat. He knew it had only been a few days, but he had never thought it was possible to miss someone that much.  
John got out and took his bag, then quickly walked the few meters to the doorstep of 221B. "Hello," he smiled at Sherlock.  
Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and without a word of greeting pulled him close, kissing him with almost desperate passion.  
Behind John, Ian reached over and closed the door silently, before telling the driver to take him back home as fast as possible.  
John cupped Sherlock's face and kissed him back, even though he felt guilty, knowing that Ian could see them. Part of him wanted to stop Sherlock and tell him to go inside, but he just couldn't, and the car was long gone before he finally pulled away to breathe.  
"Don't ever leave me like that again," Sherlock said, gasping for air, his eyes darting over John's face and body, taking in every single detail hungrily.  
John let his hand wander down his neck and gave him a weak, tired smile. "I'm not planning to. Come on, let's go in."  
Sherlock smiled and took his hand, leading him through the door and up the stairs.


	32. Chapter 32

Once inside their flat, John dropped his bag and pulled Sherlock close again, wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug and burying his face in his shoulder. Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, sliding his hands across his back. Then he sighed and buried his nose in his hair.  
"I was holding the knife," John mumbled, as if he were making a confession to Sherlock's shoulder.  
"Fitzroy?" Sherlock asked, stroking John's hair. "Is that what happened to him?"  
"He almost disembowelled himself." John swallowed.  
"Oh god." Sherlock held him tight. "It wasn't your fault."  
"I know. But it happened, and he didn't deserve that. I mean, he was a nutter, and he made Thomas Elton steal the book, but he hadn't hurt anyone." John sighed. At least he finally felt safe in the warm embrace.  
"Where did you get the knife?" Sherlock asked.  
"Kitchen. He attacked us. Yes, alright, I know what you're going to say. But still, it wasn't necessary. If he had just kept still until the police arrived, he would only be in prison now."  
"So, he tried to hurt you with the knife?"  
"Yes. Ian knocked me out of the way just in time."  
"I must remember to thank him," Sherlock mused.  
John looked up at him. "Perhaps you shouldn't. He's in love with you. It's quite possible that he regrets saving me..."  
"I think you're exaggerating," Sherlock chuckled.  
John shook his head. "He told me."  
"That he regrets saving you?"  
"No, that he's in love with you. He was hurt when I told him that you're - not free." John sighed.  
"Yes," Sherlock said. "But that's not the same as wanting you dead, is it?"  
"No. I'm just tired and taking things a bit too... You know. I need a shower to wash the blood away."  
"Okay, love.” Sherlock kissed him softly. "I'll make us a cup of tea." He hesitated. "Or do you want company?"  
"Please join me." John realized that it almost sounded like begging, but he needed Sherlock with him.  
"Of course." Taking his hand, Sherlock led him to the bathroom.  
John quickly undressed, hardly taking his eyes off Sherlock. Not having seen him for a couple of days, he seemed even more astonishingly beautiful. Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. He too had a hard time looking away from John, but tore himself loose, long enough to turn on the water to let it run hot.  
As soon as they were both naked and Sherlock had covered the cast around his arm, John pulled Sherlock under the hot spray and hugged him again. "I missed you," he whispered, even though Sherlock already knew that.  
"I missed you too," Sherlock answered, holding John close. Then he pulled back just enough to bend down and kiss him.  
John stroked Sherlock's neck as he kissed him back. Sherlock trembled at the touch, running his hands down John's back, letting them come to rest on his hips. John stroked down Sherlock's shoulders and upper arms while deepening the kiss, moaning softly.  
"I've needed you so badly," Sherlock whispered against his lips. "That phone call only made it worse."  
"You can have me now," John said hoarsely.  
"I want you inside me, John," Sherlock whispered, nibbling at John's lip.  
"Here?" John asked. He gently took Sherlock's hardening cock in his hand and stroked his fingertips along the shaft.  
Sherlock hissed at the touch. "Why not?"  
"Lube?"  
Sherlock huffed in frustration. "It's in the bedroom."  
"I could go get it... Or shall we just move?"  
"I don't know..." Sherlock thought for a moment then grinned. "Go get it," he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes.  
"God, what are you up to?" John said, smiling and shaking his head while he got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around himself.  
While Sherlock waited impatiently for John to return, he considered the options.  
John needed less than a minute to get the lube and quickly padded back to the bathroom. Sherlock smiled at him. "How do you want to do this?" he asked, almost casually. "Against the wall or on the floor?"  
"Wall." The speed of John's answer indicated that he had been thinking about this before.  
"Perfect," Sherlock said, and then kissed him hungrily. He reached down and started stroking John slowly.  
John soon pulled back from the kiss, too impatient to wait much longer. He pressed lube on his fingers and reached between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse. Sherlock gasped and smiled at him, increasing the speed of the strokes. John moaned and softly massaged until he felt Sherlock relax. "I can still hardly believe that I am allowed to do this to you," he said softly, pushing his finger in slowly.  
"Allowed?" Sherlock almost snorted. "I would be demanding it, if you didn't do it so willingly."  
John chuckled and kissed his neck. "You're mine, you're all mine," he said lowly, pushing a little further.  
"I am," Sherlock agreed, his breathing growing faster as he pushed back against John's finger. "More," he moaned.  
John carefully added another finger. His other hand smoothed over Sherlock's chest. "So beautiful..."  
"Is that all I am to you?" Sherlock asked teasingly, bending down to nibble on John's ear. "A beautiful body for you to play with?"  
John laughed and slightly stretched his fingers. "Fishing for compliments, are we now? I must say you are a very nice toy..." He felt infinitely better, being here with Sherlock after the miserable evening.  
Sherlock moaned again. "Play all you like," he said, as he kissed his way down John's neck.  
"Be careful..." John smirked, catching his mouth and brushing his fingertips over Sherlock's prostate.  
"Why?" Sherlock asked, gasping. "Am I giving you ideas?"  
"Perhaps..." John teased, scissoring his fingers a last time before pulling them out. "Turn around."  
Sherlock quickly turned, bracing himself with his good arm against the wall.  
John slowly kissed along his spine, his hands settling on Sherlock's hips to pull him closer. He teasingly brushed the head of his cock between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse.  
Sherlock groaned. "Don't keep me waiting," he pleaded.  
"Or what?" John growled behind Sherlock's ear, before softly sinking his teeth in the muscles of his lover's shoulder. He knew he couldn't keep teasing for long, because his own impatience was growing as well, but it was fun as long as it lasted.  
"Just don't," Sherlock answered. "We've both had to wait long enough, don't you think?"  
John kissed the spot he had just bitten. "You do have a point." He took the lube again and slickened his cock, almost hissing at the cool feeling in the steam of the hot water. He slowly guided himself inside Sherlock, gasping and moaning as he went. "God, Sherlock," he whispered.  
Sherlock rested his head against the wall and groaned softly. John kissed a line on his neck, holding still for a moment, before he slightly pulled out. He moaned loudly as he pushed back in.  
"Fuck," Sherlock exclaimed, and then almost laughed. "That feels amazing."  
"You bet it does," John panted, placing his hands on Sherlock's hips and repeating the movement. Sherlock moaned and pushed back against John. John sped up his thrusts, pressing his face into Sherlock's back. He let his left hand slip to his front and softly stroked his cock in the same rhythm. "Mine," he managed, sounding muffled.  
"Yours," Sherlock gasped.  
John moaned and pressed a kiss to his back. Sherlock whimpered with pleasure, arching his back and again pushing back against John to take him as deep inside him as possible. John gasped and tightened his grip on Sherlock's erection, hoping to bring him off before things got too much for him. He rocked his hips, only thinking of how amazing Sherlock felt around him, so close, finally his again without anyone else talking about him as if the possibility existed that they could have him.  
"Oh god, John," Sherlock gasped. "I can't last much longer if you keep that up..."  
"You're not supposed to last much longer," John growled, thrusting hard.  
"Well, in that case," Sherlock gasped, "just continue what you're..." He didn't get to finish the sentence, because at that moment, the combined sensations became too much, and he was completely overwhelmed by the force of his orgasm, crying out John's name.  
John moaned as Sherlock clenched around him. "God, yes, Sherlock," he breathed, giving a few last thrusts before he too tipped over the edge.  
Sherlock rested his forehead on the arm against the wall, which seemed to be the only thing keeping him up at the moment. "I love you," he gasped. "And I'm all yours."  
John collapsed against his back, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's stomach. "Too," was all he could breathe out.  
Sherlock twisted around within John's embrace so he was facing him. He laid his arm around his shoulders and held him close.  
John closed his eyes and just held him, catching his breath. Sherlock clung to John, feeling ridiculously happy and content.  
John hummed and kissed Sherlock's clavicle. "I really love you so much."  
"I know," Sherlock answered with a smug grin. "I love you too."  
John smiled and stood upright, rather than leaning his full weight against Sherlock. "Shall I wash your back?"  
Sherlock smiled and nodded.  
John turned him around and took the soap, gently stroking Sherlock's back with it. As he got on to his shoulders, he started properly massaging them, putting more pressure on the muscles. Sherlock leaned back into the touch. "Oh, that feels good," he purred.  
John smirked and went on, pressing his hands flat on Sherlock's shoulder blades making circles, then massaged the muscles next to his spine with his thumbs. "I love touching you."  
"Then please continue," Sherlock said. "But perhaps we should move this to bed?"  
"Hmm, yeah, we'll soon be running out of hot water." He took Sherlock's hand to make him face him again and pulled him in for a kiss with his other hand on Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock kissed him back, while reaching over to turn off the shower. "I have a plan," he said.  
"Hmm?"  
"Let's not get out of bed before the police releases those two books."  
John chuckled. "It sounds like a good plan, as long as I can make an exception tomorrow morning to get us both breakfast."  
"How trivial," Sherlock said with a grin. "But fine. As long as you promise not to get dressed."  
"Of course not, that would be rude," John grinned back, kissing his chest before starting to dry them both off.  
"Extremely," Sherlock agreed. "I will probably also allow a number of trips to the bathroom."  
"Yeah, you should. Do I have to sign a contract, or do you trust that I will keep me to our agreement?" John laughed.  
"No, I'll just use brute force to get you to comply," Sherlock answered.  
"Hmmm, sounds interesting," John purred. "Come on, bed. I'm too tired to stand much longer."  
Sherlock nodded and then spun John around pushing him towards the door. John chuckled as Sherlock pushed him forward. "I think I still have the orientation to find the bedroom."  
"Yes. But you're being awfully slow about getting there," Sherlock replied as he continued pushing John ahead of him.

"Really." John shook his head, but let Sherlock do as he wished.  
Once he had steered John to the bedroom, Sherlock pushed him down on the bed. "That's better," he said, as he climbed in next to him and pulled the covers up.  
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him half on top of him. He sighed happily, closing his eyes. "Much better. I was beginning to hate sleeping without you."  
"Me too," Sherlock said, nuzzling John's neck lazily. "It's even worse alone."  
"I don't think there's anything bad about sleeping now, though," John smiled, trailing his fingers through Sherlock's curls.  
"Definitely not," Sherlock said and then yawned.  
John turned his head and softly kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Sleep well, love."  
Sherlock mumbled something that might have been 'you too', and promptly fell asleep for the first time in many days.


	33. Chapter 33

When John woke up, he was still holding Sherlock just as tight as when he had fallen asleep. He sighed happily and didn't open his eyes, enjoying the warmth and the feeling of Sherlock's calm breath on his neck. In response to John's sigh, Sherlock murmured some happy sounding nonsense and snuggled closer, without really waking up. John softly stroked his back, not wanting to rouse him, but just addicted to the feeling of his skin under his fingertips. Sherlock unconsciously leaned in to the touch and hummed with contentment. John smiled, still too lazy to open his eyes and thus not knowing whether Sherlock was awake or not, he kissed his hair.  
"G'morning," Sherlock muttered, and buried his face in John's chest.  
"Morning, Sherlock." John began stroking his neck, lightly scratching with his fingernails at the nape of his neck as he went.  
Sherlock looked up at John with a sleepy smile. Then he reached out and pulled John in for a lazy kiss. John hummed and pulled Sherlock a little higher up, contentedly sucking on his bottom lip. Sherlock smiled and ran his fingertips down John's cheek and along his jaw.  
John smiled and looked in his eyes. "Shall I get breakfast, or do you prefer something else first?"  
"When have I ever preferred breakfast before anything else?"  
"I don't know, you probably didn't eat properly while I was away, so you must be starving..." He let his hand wander along the side of Sherlock's stomach.  
"Not really," Sherlock shrugged. "Mrs Hudson insisted on feeding me biscuits yesterday."  
John snorted. "So I do have a point. Good thing Mrs. Hudson is around."  
"Are we going to discuss my eating habits or are we going to snog?" Sherlock asked with a teasing pout.  
John grinned and pulled him in again.  
"Snogging it is," Sherlock concluded before devoting all his attention to the activity.  
John let his hands slide over Sherlock's back, before settling on his arse, kissing him passionately. Sherlock returned the kiss with equal passion, running his hand all over John's body, as if to assure himself that he was really there. John rolled them over so he ended up on top, holding Sherlock's shoulders.  
Sherlock ran his hand up John's neck and let his fingers slide into the soft hair. He moaned softly into the kiss. John went on to kiss his jaw and neck and pressed his hardening cock against Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes, just enjoying John's touches.  
John kept brushing his lips against Sherlock's neck and moaned softly. "Tell me what you want," he whispered.  
Sherlock laughed breathlessly. "Everything," he said. "Anything, as long as it's with you."  
John smiled and kissed his lips again. "How about keeping the promise I made on the phone?" He started kissing down Sherlock's chest.  
"Sounds like a good plan," Sherlock said, his voice trembling slightly.  
John kissed his stomach, his thumbs massaging Sherlock's hips. He looked up at him. "You're so gorgeous..."  
"Thank you." Sherlock smiled as he met his eyes. "And still all yours," he added with a wink.  
John chuckled and bent down to nuzzle the trail of hair on his lower stomach. Then he looked up once more, teasing, before wrapping his lips around the head of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock moaned softly and closed his eyes again. John slowly started sucking him, now and then adding gentle licks, making it last.  
The sounds Sherlock was making grew louder and more urgent as he let himself get completely caught up in the sensations John was causing. John continued what he was doing, slowly stroking himself as Sherlock's sounds were making him needy.  
"You..." Sherlock gasped. "You mentioned something else... On the phone."  
John smirked. "Bit late to rip your clothes off now, isn't it?" he teased. "Or wasn't that the right part of the promise?"  
"I believe we're past that point," Sherlock answered, keeping a straight face.  
John smiled and kissed his hip. "But when I said I was fantasizing about you riding me, you said you wanted to take me... in every possible way, if I recall it right. So I still don't have enough data about what you actually want." He grinned.  
"We were talking about what you were saying, right?" Sherlock winked. "But if you'd rather..."  
John hesitated for a moment, then took the lube and sat back between Sherlock's legs. After pressing it on his fingers, he leaned back on his right elbow and pushed himself a little up so Sherlock would have a good view as he pressed his middle finger into himself.  
Sherlock's eyebrows shot up as he watched John in eager amazement.  
"I hope that you don't mind me doing your job, but you know, without hands..." John nodded at the cast around Sherlock's arm. He felt triumphant because of Sherlock's reaction, but it was overpowered by a gasp as he pressed deeper.  
"No..." Sherlock managed to say, his voice a little strained. "You go right ahead."  
John smirked and moaned. Doing this himself, he could go a little faster, and he carefully pushed in a second finger. "I want you, Sherlock."  
"I want you too," Sherlock said, unable to take his eyes of what John was doing. "Oh god, I want you." He bit back a 'now', torn between the need to feel John around him and the desire to continue watching.  
John closed his eyes and sighed, continuing to thrust into himself. He'd much rather have Sherlock, but he couldn't risk ruining this by not preparing himself well enough. Completely captivated by the sight, Sherlock began stroking himself slowly.  
With a groan, John decided that he had had enough, and slowly pulled his fingers back out. He felt a little hazy when he opened his eyes and sat up on his knees, scrambling to find the lube again. Looking at Sherlock's face, he simply had to kiss him first before he could get on with anything else. Sherlock returned the kiss, for a moment holding John very close.  
"I want to feel you inside me," John whispered against his lips.  
"Oh yes," Sherlock gasped. "How do you want to do this?"  
"I-" John paused, even though he knew very well what he wanted. "I'd like to do it like this. With you on your back." He was panting.  
Sherlock nodded and settled back, not taking his eyes off John's. "Are you sure about this?"  
"Yes," John said immediately. He moved a little back and pressed more lube on his hand to apply on Sherlock's cock. "God, yes."  
"Oh god, I love you," Sherlock gasped.  
"I love you too," John answered, gently stroking the lube onto Sherlock's cock and kissing his chest. Then he positioned himself over Sherlock's erection and slowly guided him in. "Oh, god."  
Without realising it, Sherlock was holding his breath. Seeing and feeling John like this was nothing short of overwhelming.  
John groaned and pulled a little back again, before taking a deep breath and sinking further. "It's - it's amazing, but it's-."  
Sherlock nodded. "I know. Take all the time you need."  
John looked at him with an expression between a smile and admiration. "I love you, Sherlock." He trailed his fingers over Sherlock's stomach to distract himself a bit. "I would never have believed that you are so patient in this, but you are amazing. You're a magnificent lover." He forced himself to relax and sank fully down, throwing his head back with a loud moan.  
Sherlock groaned at the sensation. "Only because I have you," he muttered, closing his eyes. "I will do anything for you."  
John leaned forward and cupped his face, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "You don't have to do anything for me," he whispered. "I want you the way you are." He kissed his jaw.  
"And I want you." Sherlock answered, his hand reaching up to rest on John's chest. "Always."  
John smiled and stroked the hand on his chest, before lifting his weight off Sherlock for a moment and sinking back. "Oh fuck, that feels good."  
Sherlock gasped and then nodded, once again closing his eyes. "Amazing."  
John groaned and repositioned, then rocked his hips so that Sherlock's cock brushed his prostate. The moan that followed was simply obscene. "More," he breathed.  
Sherlock moved his hand to John's hip and then thrust upwards. "Oh god," he moaned. "You feel so good."  
John was too aroused to say a word. He moaned and bent forward to kiss Sherlock again, languidly tangling their tongues as they were moving together in pleasure. Sherlock dug his fingers into John's hip as he began moving faster and deeper. John whimpered and wrapped his hand around his erection. He didn't want this ever to be over, but his cock was twitching with need.  
Sherlock put his hand over John's, moving with him. "I'm close..." he gasped.  
"Me too," John groaned. "I want- together-"  
Sherlock nodded. He began moving faster, his hand closing tight over John's. "Almost..."  
John nodded and moaned. "Sherlock! Fuck." He gasped and came hard. Sherlock groaned as John tightened around him and came only seconds later. John moaned and didn't get off him immediately, slowly moving with Sherlock through his orgasm and hugging his shoulders. "I love you," he panted, kissing Sherlock's neck.  
Sherlock was not able to answer right away, but nodded as he gasped for breath and mouthed the words 'you too'.  
John nuzzled his jaw. "I'll get something to clean us up in a minute. Just stay here?" Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes with a deep sigh. John kissed his face and brushed his hair back. "Thank you."  
Sherlock stroked John's cheek. "No, thank you," he said.  
John smiled, then carefully moved off Sherlock. "Ow."  
Sherlock almost managed to suppress a somewhat smug grin. "Sorry."  
"No, you're not, and you shouldn't be," John laughed.  
"Okay." Sherlock chuckled. "How about: 'I sympathise'?"  
"Still doesn't really sound like you, does it?" John grinned. He bent down to kiss Sherlock, then stepped out of the bed. "I'll be back in a second."  
Sherlock closed his eyes again, cataloguing this morning under: 'never delete’. John returned with a wet cloth and cleaned them both up, then snuggled against Sherlock's side.  
Sherlock kissed John on the forehead. "It's good to have you home," he said.  
"Hmmm." John smiled and nuzzled Sherlock's shoulder, putting an arm around his waist. "I must admit that I still don't understand everything about that theft."  
"Well," Sherlock said. "I won't know everything before I can examine the books. More specifically, I do not know why the books were stolen. But I have a pretty clear notion of how it happened."  
"Tell me?" John asked, lazily settling in the crook of Sherlock's good arm after pulling the sheets back over them. Of course he wanted to know the whole story, but if he was honest, he was mostly asking Sherlock to explain it, just to hear his voice.  
"Fitzroy was behind the theft of the book from Brazil, of course. Probably his partner was in on it too, but there is no way of knowing that for sure. He then learned about the book in Gryffydd's possession two years ago, but it was better protected. There was a failed attempt to steal it a year ago, but it was written off by the police as vandalism. Then Fitzroy contacted Thomas Elton and hired him to find a way to get the book out. Fitzroy arranged for Gryffydd to be invited to the convention. He was also behind the request for photographs of the Abscondita. Elton had by that time put up a camera in Gryffydd's library and thus he learned the exact location of the book. He had also sabotaged the window in Ian's room so he could let himself in and out, while the house was empty." Sherlock stopped for breath.  
"It explains a lot if he only had to avoid the detectors from Ian's room to the library," John nodded. "There were none inside his bedroom, of course... Yeah, I see."  
"Yes, the whole thing was actually quite clever. Now all I have to figure out is why Fitzroy wanted those books so desperately. And why Mycroft is so interested."  
"Mycroft?" John frowned.  
"Yes," Sherlock chuckled. "He showed up trying to get information on the case. He pretended it was nothing, but you know him. He would not come here in person if it wasn't important."  
"Hmm," John nodded. "Although, perhaps he worried about you, knowing that I wasn't here?"  
"Mycroft?" Sherlock snorted.  
"Yeah, you know. He wouldn't admit it of course, and I'm not saying that he'd do much good - but it's a possibility. Though if you think he's interested in the case, you're most probably right of course."  
"I believe he is. And I am going to find out why. It will all be in those books I expect. I hope the police releases them soon."  
"Hmm." John kissed his shoulder. "It shouldn't be too long before they send them, I think. They just need Owain's signature because they're his property, but I guess they could be here tomorrow, if you're lucky."  
"I hope so." Sherlock leaned his head against John's and sighed.  
John kissed his cheek. "Meanwhile, I can keep you busy... But now I really want breakfast first."  
Sherlock grinned. "I like the sound of that."  
John chuckled and kissed his lips. "Do you want to eat here? I'm not really a fan of eating in bed, to be honest. Perhaps we should break your rules for just half an hour?"  
Sherlock managed to pout for almost five seconds, then his face broke in to the smile that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there since John came home. "Sure, I'll grant you dispensation for feeding purposes."  
John chuckled. "Thank you. After all we need the energy." He kissed Sherlock again, then pulled a little back from his grip. "You will have to let me go though, if you want some eggs."  
"I don't care about eggs," Sherlock said, still holding on. "It's you who wants to eat." He considered. "On the other hand, you may be needing all your strength until we get those books, so go ahead." He released John after one more kiss.  
"Quite right," John smirked, getting up. "I'd like you to eat too though." Reaching for his pants, he added: ”And I'm not cooking naked.”  
Sherlock shot the pants a glare, and then sighed with mock petulance. "Sure."  
"The sacrifices you make for me, hmm?" John grinned. He took Sherlock's hand and virtually dragged him to the kitchen with him.  
Sherlock stumbled after, grabbing the corner of the sheet and dragging it with him. Once in the kitchen he wrapped it around his body and settled on a chair to watch John cook.  
"Sherlock?" John said, when he had just opened the fridge. "Didn't you say you went to the shop?"  
Sherlock grinned sheepishly and looked away. "Yes."  
"Then why do we not have one egg in our fridge?" John asked, a bit disappointed.  
"I said I went to the shop," Sherlock said, seeming quite reluctant to meet John's eyes. "I didn't say I brought anything back."  
John sighed. "Alright, then it will just be toast. Good thing Mrs. Hudson takes care of you," he said, opening the bag of bread on the counter.  
Sherlock nodded and grinned. "Yes. Very good thing."  
"You'd really starve without us, wouldn't you?" John said, shaking his head with a small smile.  
"I'd manage," Sherlock said with a shrug. "I have before, you know."  
"Yeah, but then you think that a couple of biscuits make a healthy meal."  
Sherlock laughed. "Exactly."  
"Well, toast it is," John said, smiling at him.


	34. Chapter 34

After they had eaten, Sherlock only a little reluctantly, the detective left the dishes to John under the pretence of having to check something on his laptop. He brought it over to the sofa and flopped down, letting the sheet slide off his shoulders, so he was only covered from the waist down.  
John put the plates away in the cupboard and turned around to see Sherlock sitting in the sofa like that. Unconsciously, he licked his lips and stepped closer. "It really should be illegal to look that good."  
Sherlock chuckled, and glanced at him. "Only for you, love," he said teasingly.  
John rolled his eyes but sat down next to him. "What are you doing?"  
"Just checking up on the myth of the books. Fitzroy said something about needing both of them, right?"  
"Yeah. And about finding the truth..." John's face fell a little as he thought of the man. "I wonder how he is."  
Sherlock looked at him. He frowned and then closed the laptop, put it on the table and reached a hand out to John. "He'll be fine. Come here."  
"It's alright," John said, but he willingly let Sherlock settle him against his chest with a sigh.  
Sherlock kissed John's forehead and stroked his back gently. "It hasn't been easy for you, has it? These past few days?"  
John shrugged and held him. "I missed you. Don't really want to talk about what happened, now."  
"No," Sherlock agreed. "Let's focus on here and now." He let his fingers dance along John's spine. John relaxed against him and stroked his sides.  
"You know," Sherlock said, moving his hand further down John's back. "It seems to me that you have been doing almost all the work around here in more ways than one."  
John chuckled softly and kissed his collar bone. "I don't really mind," he said, snuggling against his neck. "I'm always glad when I can help you."  
"Yes, I'm glad when you help me too. But I think maybe it's my turn to do something for you."  
John reached up for a kiss. "What do you want to do?"  
"I want you to just sit here and relax," Sherlock said with a smile, as he shifted John's weight off him. Then he let himself slide to the floor so he was kneeling next to the sofa.  
John looked down, his heart rate speeding up at the sight. He reached down and stroked Sherlock's cheek.  
Sherlock smiled up at him and moved so he was between John's legs. He slid his hand slowly up John's thigh. "A little help with the pants might be needed," he said with a grin.  
John smirked and fumbled with the waistband, teasing. "Do you want them completely off, or...?"  
"Just out of the way. Whatever's most comfortable for you."  
"Off then, if you're planning to do what I think you are." John lifted his hips a little and got rid of his pants, dropping them next to the sofa.  
Sherlock kept his eyes on John's as he reached out and gently started stroking him.  
John hummed and moved a little towards Sherlock's hand.  
Sherlock leaned forward and kissed the head of John's cock softly. Then he let his tongue dart out and flick across it. The sheet had fallen completely off him and lay forgotten on the floor.  
John moaned and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair, just to feel him close to him. "That's- that's quite a good distraction," he gasped.  
Sherlock flicked his tongue again. Then he swirled his tongue around the head, still stroking slowly with his hand.  
John closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "Hmm, Sherlock."  
Sherlock could not help but smile at the sound of his name, in that particular tone. He opened his mouth and let his lips slide slowly down over the head, his tongue teasing the tip.  
John let out a loud groan, but suddenly jumped at the sound of the door handle being pushed down. God no. Mrs. Hudson really couldn't walk in on them like this.  
It was worse than Mrs. Hudson.  
Mycroft coughed delicately and politely turned his head away from them. "I see that I have chosen a bad moment."  
Sherlock sighed. He allowed himself one final lick, before pulling back. He looked up at John, who just sat staring at Sherlock's brother for a moment with a horrified look on his face, before he came back to himself and picked his pants up, then quickly threw the sheet over Sherlock's shoulders.  
"It would be pleasant if you two could make yourself decent a little more quickly. I don't have much time," Mycroft said, still looking away, impatiently tapping his foot.  
As Sherlock got to his feet, he leaned in and gave John a brief kiss. "Later," he whispered. Then he turned around to face Mycroft, not bothering to pull the sheet around him to hide exactly how much he had been enjoying himself. "If you were so concerned with decency, brother dear, perhaps you should learn to knock."  
"I'll, uhm, get some clothes on. Excuse me." John bolted into the bedroom.  
Mycroft gave his brother an expectant look. "Perhaps you should follow his example. He could be a good influence if you let him."  
"Why, Mycroft? Am I embarrassing you?" Sherlock pulled the sheet closed with a huff. "Surely you can't be surprised. You know John has been away for several days and just came back last night. What did you expect?"  
"For you two to contain yourselves at this time of the day, in the middle of your living room without locking the door," Mycroft answered, pulling up his eyebrows and leaning on his umbrella. "I take it your case is closed, then, if you allow such a distraction?"  
"As always I am pleased to not live up to your expectations." Sherlock made a little mocking bow. "What do you care about our case anyway?"  
"Like I told you, it's merely an interest in the occupations of my little brother. You found the books, didn't you?"  
"I thought you did not care about those books," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "And yes. We found the books and they have been returned to their rightful owner."  
"Very good," Mycroft answered with one of his painful smiles. "Both of them?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I don't know if the other one is back in Brazil yet. But as far as I'm concerned, the case is closed." He sat down on the sofa, not being particularly careful to keep the sheet closed.  
"Interesting," Mycroft said, still leaning on his umbrella.  
John returned from the bedroom, now dressed in a red shirt and the first pair of trousers he had been able to find. His eyes shifted between the two brothers. They weren't even glaring too badly at each other, so he decided everything was alright. "Tea?"  
"No, thank you. Like I said, I don't have much time, and just came here to check if all was well. How are you, John?" Mycroft said.  
John frowned. "Fine... Why are you here?"  
Mycroft ignored his question. "Could you repeat to me the last few words Mr. Fitzroy said, John? It would be of great help to me."  
"Mr. Fitzroy isn't dead. It weren't his last words," John said pointedly, sitting down next to Sherlock.  
"Of course not," Mycroft answered pleasantly. "I mean of course the last words he said to you."  
"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "You made it quite clear the last time you were here that you were not interested in this case. If you had been, I'm sure you could have helped me solve it faster and with fewer unfortunate incidents." He laid his arm around John's shoulders and gave him a little squeeze. "Now I suggest you make yourself scarce before I repeat the last thing I said to John, before you so rudely interrupted."  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't be so childish. I'm not going to steal John, am I? All I am doing is trying to get information for another, similar case. It might be of great importance to the whole country."  
John gently pushed Sherlock's arm off his shoulders. It just didn't really help to make him feel strong, with Mycroft looking down on them. "It's fine, Sherlock. I don't think that telling him a few words can do any harm, and besides I don't think I even remember everything. I was kind of busy... trying to make him survive." He shifted. Alright, perhaps Sherlock's arm hadn't been such a bad idea, but now it was too late to change his mind.  
Sherlock took John's hand. "No," he said. Then he added in a whisper: "Please don't." He let go of the hand and got to his feet. "My brother was just leaving. Weren't you, Mycroft?" Sherlock took a step forward, letting the sheet slide just a little off his shoulders. "Next time you feel like dropping by, please call in advance. We'll make sure the door is locked, so we don't offend your sensibilities."  
John looked up at Mycroft and shrugged, not planning to say anything more.  
"Fine," Mycroft said between his teeth, clearly seething under all his composure. "Things would often be a lot easier if you decided to work with me now and then, rather than against me, Sherlock. It would save you and those you love -" his gaze fell on John again - "a lot of pain."  
"When you start working with me, maybe I'll consider it," Sherlock retorted. Then he turned to John and knelt down in front of him. Putting his hand on his knee, he looked John in the eyes. "Thank you," he mouthed silently.  
Mycroft sighed audibly and went to the door. "At least lock it before dear Mrs. Hudson gets a heart attack," he mumbled, then went out.  
"Apparently Mrs. Hudson has better nerves than he has," John smirked, pulling Sherlock up for a hug.  
Sherlock returned the hug, smiling. "Did he put you off completely, or do you want to continue?"  
John kissed his cheek. "I can't say that a visit from your brother is doing wonders towards getting me aroused."  
"Maybe I can help put him out of your mind," Sherlock said, letting his hand move up John's thigh. "Stopping now would be letting him win, in a way. And besides..." he let his voice drop. "I want to feel you come in my mouth."  
John grabbed his face for a hungry kiss, blood already rushing back to the right places. "Hmmm, you've certainly won. Why did I even get dressed?"  
Sherlock chuckled. "I have no idea. Let's get it off again." He began unbuttoning John's shirt.  
John chuckled and gave him a hand, so he was sitting naked in less than a minute. He pulled Sherlock in his lap and kissed him again.  
Sherlock kissed him eagerly, running his hand down John's chest. John tangled his hands in Sherlock's hair, sighing.  
"I love you so much," Sherlock whispered. "And I want you right now." He once again moved to the floor, settling between John's legs.  
…  
John was woken up by Sherlock's lips on his. It was late in the afternoon and they had gone back to bed hours ago, but at some point John must have become exhausted enough to doze off while they were cuddling. He opened his eyes and smiled, then kissed Sherlock again.  
"Welcome back," Sherlock said with a grin, when he pulled back for air. "Did I bore you?"  
"Not at all," John chuckled. "You've just worn me out, but it was absolutely worth it."  
Sherlock chuckled smugly. "Yes, I believe it was. And besides, I quite enjoyed watching you sleep. It's so restful."  
"That's the point of sleeping," John grinned. "You should try it. But not right now." He nipped at Sherlock's jaw. "You're beautiful when you look so thoroughly shagged."  
"And I expect you'll be doing your best to keep me looking this gorgeous all the time," Sherlock said with a wink.  
John laughed and kissed his nose. "I won't let you out when you look like this though. You already have admirers enough."  
"Admirers?" Sherlock snorted. "I don't have admirers."  
John pulled up his eyebrows. "Forgetting Molly Hooper? And I think Ian Gryffydd would get even worse than she is..."  
"Oh. Them." Sherlock didn't quite manage to hide his smug grin.  
John poked him playfully in the ribs. "No need to look so pleased."  
"Oi," Sherlock squirmed. "I'm allowed to be a little pleased if I, during my entire life, have managed to charm two people. That's not a lot, you know."  
"You're not even counting me," John pouted. "And I'm sure you've charmed more people, only you're too busy being observant on your cases to notice all that."  
"I haven't charmed you," Sherlock said, looking very serious. "I've swept you off your feet." He grinned and gave John a deep but rather giggly kiss. "Besides, I only consciously charm those that might be useful to me."  
"Hmm, so you found me very useful?" John laughed, kissing him again. "Still, I guess it never was your plan to eventually land in bed with me every day."  
"No, John. You're missing the point. I did not intentionally charm you. I found you to be a true friend, so I trusted you, and things just... changed. And no, when I first met you, I certainly did not picture this as a possible outcome. I was an idiot."  
John smirked. "You still are, love."  
Sherlock huffed. "Why thank you very much... And why am I an idiot this time?"  
John shrugged. "You just are one," he said with a fond look. "Because you are a genius, but you aren't exactly a star at emotions, although you are rapidly getting better when it comes to mine. And mainly because I am the only one allowed to call you an idiot, because I am also your idiot, and that makes it just another, less boring way of telling you that I love you. You actually knew that when you were falling asleep, that one time when you got lost in London..."  
"Oh yeah," Sherlock smiled at the memory of what that little incident had set in motion. "Well, in that case, I think you're an idiot too."  
"I know," John grinned. "Thank you." He gently kissed Sherlock.


	35. Chapter 35

John was still asleep in the bedroom, but Sherlock had been up, mucking about with an old, almost discarded experiment in the kitchen, for nearly an hour, when he heard the doorbell. He hurried down the stairs and found, to his relief, that he had guessed right: it was a young Blackpool policewoman, who handed him the two books with a shy smile, trying not to stare too much.  
Sherlock couldn't help himself. He flashed her a brilliant smile. "Thank you, dear," he said, and the woman blushed instantly. She muttered something, nodded her head and left in a hurry. Chuckling to himself, Sherlock made it up the stairs, already busy examining the books in his hands.  
John came out of the bedroom, pulling his dressing robe around him, just as Sherlock entered the flat. "Morning. What was - ah, the books?"  
Sherlock beamed at him. "Yes," he said. "Finally." He brought them over to the table, cleared everything to one side with a single sweep of his arm and carefully laid the books down.  
John sighed as everything dropped to the floor, but he was happy for Sherlock. After all he had given him a wonderful day, and it was only fair that he could work properly now. He stood close next to him to have a look at the books. "What are you going to look for first?" he asked, turning one of the copies around to admire the figures on the cover.  
"The covers," Sherlock said. "And then of course I'll have to read them."  
"Have fun," John said, pulling up his eyebrows at the thick volumes. "Do you mind if I go to the shop first? I guess I can't help you much right now..."  
Sherlock shook his head and waved his hand in a sort of vague dismissal. He had put the two books next to each other and was studying the covers intently.  
John pressed a kiss to the back of Sherlock's head and went for a shower. It would always be strange, how Sherlock could pin his full attention to John one day, and to a case on the next. John didn't mind, as long as the first kind of days would occur now and then. He got dressed and left to get some food.  
When John returned, Sherlock was sitting at the table, one of the books open before him, his laptop next to him, taking notes with one hand as he read.  
John put everything in the fridge, then sat down next to Sherlock, who didn't seem to have noticed his return. "Anything interesting?" he asked.  
"Not even remotely," Sherlock answered. "It's about subtexts in ancient Greek drama. Very tedious. I don't understand why anyone would go through so much trouble to get their hands on them."  
"What kind of subtext?" John asked a bit distractedly, as he was looking a little too much at Sherlock's lips while he was speaking.  
"You know, reading between the lines. Looking beyond the actual words of the text for the true meaning." Sherlock frowned and made a note.  
"Yeah." John shook himself. "Yeah, like the title indicates. Is one of the chapters perhaps called "The truth"? It could be a point to start looking..."  
"No. No Veritas." Sherlock turned a page. "And no Aperto either. I'm beginning to think that Fitzroy was just a madman."  
"He was a madman," John said thoughtfully, pulling the other book closer. "But even then he must have had a reason to make the efforts to steal both books, with five years of planning in between."  
"Yes," Sherlock huffed. "You're probably right. I just wish I could have asked him what to look for."  
John turned his eyes down to the table. "Then you wouldn't have had a mystery though," he said flatly.  
Sherlock grunted in agreement, as he made another note.  
"Alright. I'm going to have a sandwich and read a bit. Call me when you need me," John said, getting up from his chair.  
Sherlock nodded and turned another page.  
After eating, John snuggled into his chair with a novel. It didn't take long before he fell asleep in the comfortable warmth - after all, Sherlock hadn't given him much chance to sleep during the previous night.  
Three hours later, Sherlock swooped down on John and pressed a very passionate kiss to his lips.  
"Hm-mmm?" John blinked himself to alertness, putting a gentle hand on Sherlock's neck in reflex.  
Sherlock pulled back and smiled at John. "I got it," he said.  
"Got what?" John frowned. "Oh, the books!"   
"Subtext!" Sherlock said. "But it's not just reading between the lines. It's reading between the books!" He hurried back to the table and picked up both books, holding them up for John to see.  
John rubbed his eyes and stared at the pages. "Er, can you talk me through it? I have no idea what I should look at."  
"The books are not identical," Sherlock said, laying the books down on the table and pointing to a word in one of them. "I discovered it, because this sentence did not really make sense, when I read the first book. 'Quoddam verba habent multos fines'. Then I read the same page in the other book and it says: 'Quoddam inventa habent multos sensos'. Also nonsense. But then if you put them together it could be: ‘Quoddam verba habent multos sensos'. And then further down on the same page, it happens again. One sentence does not make sense. There are two words that differ from book to book. But if you put them together, it becomes clear. It's scattered through the entire book. Not on every page, but there's enough for it to carry some kind of meaning."  
John smiled at Sherlock. "That's amazing," he said sincerely. "So he really did need the two copies to find the meaning of it all. Have you already found many of those differences?"  
"Ten pages," Sherlock said. "But we'll need to go through every single page of both books and compare them. And we need to mark the differences, which means we'll need copies. So I need you to go out and get a scanner. And a printer, with lots of paper and extra toner."  
John nodded and stretched. "It's a good thing that at least some of our clients pay. I'll get the stuff. Unless you care to go with me to carry some of it?"  
Sherlock snorted. "Oh, so now I'm allowed to go out?" He glanced at the cast. "Wouldn't be much use anyway."  
John chuckled. "As if you'd come if you didn't have that." He reached up for a kiss. "Don't come complaining when it isn't the right brand or anything."  
"Then get the right one," Sherlock chuckled.  
"I'll do my best."  
Sherlock gave him a quick kiss. "I love you," he said. Then he was back at the laptop.  
"You too," John smiled, taking his jacket.  
...  
An hour later, John returned with the materials. Struggling with the boxes, he got them upstairs. "A little help on the stairs would have been nice," he said, giving Sherlock a look, but as expected the detective's full focus was on the books.  
"Hook it up to your laptop," Sherlock said without looking up. "And then you can start scanning the Brazilian copy."  
"Yes, you're welcome," John said, rolling his eyes.  
"Yeah, thanks," Sherlock said belatedly as he started a new search.  
John sighed and put the kettle on before he started installing the scanner. He took a little break to pour them both a cup of tea and left Sherlock's with him, well out of reach from the books in case the genius would leap up a little too enthusiastically.  
Once everything was installed, John started making the scans. He had to be careful - after all, Professor Gryffydd's blood pressure would get far too high if he ever noticed that someone had ill-treated a copy of the Abscondita. The job was nerve-rackingly boring and it went on all night, John clinging to far too many cups of tea to keep himself awake. When finally the last page had been saved on his laptop, he started printing.  
"Sherlock?"  
"Yes?" Sherlock looked up from the screen.  
"Shouldn't we take a break? There's not much we can do until both books are printed out, and I'd really like to get some air. It would do you some good, too."  
Sherlock frowned and looked back at his screen. "I suppose..."  
"Come on, you can't stare at your screen forever if there's nothing new to be found. It's printing one book at a time anyway, to make sure the pages won't get mixed up." John reached out his hand.  
Sherlock sighed and then smiled at John. "Okay," he said and took his hand, giving it a small squeeze before getting to his feet with a groan.  
John gave him a quick hug, then grabbed his jacket and handed Sherlock his coat and scarf. "It will be good to stretch our legs before we go into comparing texts all the time."  
Sherlock nodded. "Yes, you're probably right. Where do you want to go?"  
"Just to the park or something. Or perhaps we could stop somewhere to eat, if there's anything open at this hour."  
Sherlock's stomach chose this exact moment to growl and he grinned. "Eating sounds good."  
John laughed.  
They went outside and walked down the street, hand in hand, John walking closer to Sherlock as they got further from the flat because the cold got through his thin jacket. Sherlock let go of John's hand and instead wrapped his arm around him pulling him close.  
John sighed contently. "There's this Indian restaurant that stays open late. Perhaps not as late as it is now, but we can go have a look?"  
"Sure," Sherlock gave John a little squeeze and took a deep breath. "It is nice being outside."  
"Yeah, better than dusty books. One day you're going to have to admit that breathing is more necessary than boring," John teased.  
Sherlock huffed, but kept smiling. "Necessary and boring do not rule each other out."  
"Fair point," John smiled. "I love this, though. London being at least partly asleep, so we can just walk here as if it is all ours. We should do this more often."  
Sherlock considered for a moment. "I can think of better ways to spend our time."  
John laughed. "Like you just said, one doesn't rule out the other."  
Sherlock stopped walking, holding John back as well. "No?" he asked, looking down at him with a grin.  
"It is cold though," John grinned back. "I was rather thinking of when we get back."  
"Don't worry," Sherlock said with a grin. "I can keep you warm for a while." He let go of John and unbuttoned his coat. "Get in," he said and winked at John.  
John laughed, but complied, snuggling into Sherlock's chest and reaching up for a kiss. "I love you."  
"I love you too," Sherlock said. He wrapped the coat around John and bent down to kiss him back.  
John laid his arms around Sherlock's warm back under the coat. It was nice to be completely enveloped in his scent. "I think I could fall asleep like this."  
"I don't think that would be such a good idea," Sherlock chuckled. "But if you'd rather we went home..."  
"No. Food," John said, smiling up at him. "It's a bit of a shame that we can't walk like this."  
Sherlock leaned down and kissed him. Then he let him go and took his hand again. "Let's get it over with then."  
John chuckled. "At least I'm a bit warmer now."


	36. Chapter 36

They had a late - or early - meal in the small Indian restaurant, then walked back to the flat. "Are you going right back to the copies?" John asked.  
Sherlock nodded. "If the printer's done."  
"Hm. Shame." John smiled at him. "What if the printer hasn't finished yet?"  
"I guess I'll have to find something to pass the time."  
John pulled up his eyebrow at the lack of enthusiasm.  
Sherlock nudged him with his elbow. "Any ideas?" he said, keeping a straight face.  
"Well, yes. Quite many, actually."  
Sherlock smiled. "Oh," he said. "Intriguing."  
John poked him, then pulled him down for a kiss. "You had promised that you would take me in every possible way, but I think you missed quite a few yesterday," he teased.  
Sherlock chuckled. "Quite right," he said. "Some of what I had in mind will have to wait, until I get this damn cast off. But I'll see what I can do." He pulled John close and kissed him with a sudden and almost desperate hunger.  
John eagerly kissed him back. "Perhaps- perhaps we shouldn't do this in the middle of the street though," he said breathlessly.  
Sherlock pouted. "Okay. We'll save that one for later." He winked. Then he moved his hand down and gave John's bum a playful squeeze. "No harm in getting you warmed up a little, though."  
John laughed and couldn't resist another kiss. He was far too aroused to walk outdoors, and after they pulled apart he grabbed Sherlock's hand and dragged him along to 221B. "Key," he ordered when they were standing in front of the door.  
Sherlock fumbled for his keys, while at the same time trying to catch John's earlobe with his lips, a task that he wasn't quite up for handling one-handed. The keys dropped to the ground. "Oops."  
"I really must be a bad influence, making you this clumsy," John said, but it came out more hoarsely than he had meant. He caught Sherlock's lips over his shoulder, before he bent down to pick up the keys.  
Sherlock looked down at John and chuckled in a way that sounded almost menacingly. He placed a possessive hand on John's back, just above the waist. "Now this is definitely giving me ideas."  
John rolled his eyes and rammed the key into the lock. "Get in," he said desperately.  
Sherlock would have carried John up the stairs, had it not been for his arm. Instead he pushed him ahead with a firm hand planted on his back. Once in the flat, John pinned Sherlock against the wall and kissed him hungrily, his hands already working on his shirt and not leaving him time to notice the lack of printing sounds in the room.  
Sherlock returned the kiss eagerly, as he twisted his shoulders, to get his coat and jacket off as quickly as possible.  
As soon as he could, John smoothed his hands over the bare skin of Sherlock's chest, bending his head to lap at one of his nipples.  
Sherlock leaned his head back and let out a shaky moan. His hand went to John's head, his fingers sliding through his hair.  
John reached up and kissed his lips again, sliding his hands to Sherlock's hips. "Let's go to bed. I want you horizontal."   
"You got it," Sherlock purred, as he pushed off the wall, grabbed John by the wrist and hauled him to the bedroom.  
John eagerly rubbed one hand over Sherlock's clad groin, while his other fumbled with the button of his trousers.  
Sherlock pushed him back a little. "Strip," he said, as he shrugged off his own shirt.  
John nodded and obeyed, even though it cost him a lot of effort to not just latch his mouth onto Sherlock's body again.  
Sherlock was watching John intently as he undid his own trousers and slid them off, along with his pants. "Oh god," he gasped. "I want you so badly. Right now."  
"Please," John said, stepping forward again to kiss him desperately, his cock brushing against Sherlock's thigh.  
Sherlock kissed John on the neck and then pushed him backwards towards the bed. "Turn around," he whispered in John's ear as he reached for the lube on the nightstand.  
At this point, John wasn't interested in dignity and just did as Sherlock asked, hoping he would get on with it. "I need you," he breathed.  
Sherlock placed his hand on John's back and gently but insistently pushed him forward, until his hands were resting on the bed. Then with only minimal fumbling he squeezed some lube into his hand, slicked his fingers and reached down, to tease John open.  
John threw his head back and groaned. "More," he begged, still a little bit loose from the previous night. He wanted Sherlock, he wanted him in him, and he didn't have the patience for much preparation.  
Sherlock smiled and pushed, letting his finger slide slowly all the way in. "I think you're ready." He pulled his finger out and quickly spread lube on his cock. He then paused a moment, resting his hand on John's hip looking down at him. John looked back at him, giving him a single nod. Sherlock let out a shaky sigh as he pushed into John, his fingers digging into his hip. John moaned and pushed back against him, steadying himself on his hands.  
"Oh god, I love you," Sherlock gasped as he pulled almost out and then pushed back in, a little faster and harder this time.  
"You too," John groaned. "Take me. Don't hold back."  
Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. He moved his hand to John's back, and started moving in long hard thrusts.  
John fell forward on his elbows, whimpering with pleasure. "God, Sherlock..."  
Sherlock groaned. He leaned over and moved his arm so it was around John's waist, pulling him into each thrust. John couldn't hold back his moans. Everything felt delicious, even the small amount of pain, and he wished he could touch his throbbing cock to finish himself.  
It soon became too much for Sherlock and with a final increase of speed, he came hard, his whole body shaking. Then he pulled out and pushed John down on the bed. He flipped him over and quickly descended on him, taking his cock in his mouth. John hardly realized what was happening, still enjoying the intensity of Sherlock coming inside him, when he was already on his back. He groaned loudly and arched his back as he felt Sherlock's wet mouth on him, helplessly tangling his hands in the sheets. Sherlock sucked hard, as he began moving his head, completely caught up in the feeling and taste of John. John moaned and gently rocked his hips along with Sherlock's movements, feeling that he was getting close.  
Sherlock hummed encouragingly, sliding his hand up John's thigh.  
"Fuck! Sher-" John tried to warn, but then all he could do was moan loudly as his orgasm took over.  
When John was finished, Sherlock crawled onto the bed and collapsed next to him. "Wow," he muttered.  
John pulled him into his arms and kissed him. "Yeah," he agreed when he pulled back.  
"Well," Sherlock said with a soft laugh. "That's one more to check off the list."  
John laughed and snuggled into his neck. "I'll be glad when that damn cast is off. Although I wonder if this can get even better."  
"Oh, I think it will," Sherlock said with a mischievous grin.  
John smiled and kissed his neck. "I love you."  
"I love you too," Sherlock said, running his fingers through John's hair.  
John sighed happily, completely relaxed in the cuddle.


	37. Chapter 37

Suddenly, Sherlock pulled away and jumped to his feet. "The printer!" he exclaimed. "When did it stop?"  
John groaned. "I don't know. It won't run away if you stay five minutes longer."  
Sherlock was already out the bedroom door, having only paused long enough to grab his robe.  
John sighed and reluctantly got up to find his pants. He felt more like falling asleep, but it was no use allowing himself, if Sherlock was going to call for him any minute to help.  
Sherlock had pushed everything to one side of the table, except of course the books which he had moved to the mantelpiece. He placed the two printed copies next to each other, rummaged for a highlighter, a notepad and a pen. He was about to explain to John what he should do when he realised that he wasn't there yet. "John!" he called, impatience already beginning to seep into his voice.  
"Yeah, a second, getting dressed so you won't get distracted - not that you would." Feeling a little grumpy, John joined him.  
"Okay," Sherlock said, the second he sensed John was beside him. "This stack is the Brazil copy. I want you to mark every page with a 'B' as you go over them. The other one is the Cardiff copy, so naturally they get a 'C'. You need to read the pages one line at a time and compare them. Whenever a word differs between the two copies, I want you to highlight it on both pages. Put the marked pages over here in two piles, the rest over there." He looked at John to see if he had understood, and then grabbed the notepad and pen and went to the laptop, perched precariously on a corner of the table, on top of the scanner.  
John nodded and got to work. The text was a little hard to read in some places, and after a while a dull, buzzing headache set in, as a result of all the staring and the lack of sleep.  
Sherlock was busy at the laptop, but every time John had finished marking new pages, he rushed over and jotted the words down on the notepad. As the hours wore on and the lists of words grew, he became increasingly frustrated at the lack of pattern.  
...  
Hours later, John dropped his marker and stretched with a groan. He had finally gotten through the books and rubbed his forehead, hoping that the headache would stop soon, now he was finished. The light outside was grey and he felt like it was still night, and really time to get to bed.  
Sherlock was muttering to himself as he scribbled down the last words John had marked. He scowled at the notepad and then returned his attention to the screen, typing so furiously it seemed he was trying to torture the computer into supplying an answer.  
"Er, Sherlock? Do you mind if I get some sleep?" John still was surprised at how tired his voice sounded.  
Sherlock grunted as he reached for the notepad again.  
"Is that a yes?" John sighed. "You know what, I'll take it as one anyway. I'm completely knackered."  
Sherlock didn't notice when John left. He was getting increasingly annoyed with the apparent randomness of the words in the two lists. Initially, he had believed that the words themselves would form some kind of message, but they appeared to be completely random. So he tried using the first letters of each words, anagrams, synonyms and even antonyms. Nothing.  
He returned to the pages and examined the words both before and after the highlights. Nothing. He withdrew to his mind palace and juggled the words and their arrangements in the books and on the pages for a couple of hours and then suddenly, it was as if lightning struck.  
He grabbed the first page of the Cardiff copy that John had highlighted. He looked intently at the highlights. Six words. Three in one line, almost at the top of the page. And then three in one line near the bottom. He squinted his eyes, then took his pen and connected the words two and two. "Bloody hell," he muttered. He reached for the next marked page. At first it was the same. Three words, evenly spaced in a lone at the top. But lower on the page there were only two. He quickly scanned the page and printed several copies. He tried a few variations on how to connect the words. On the third try he knew he'd found it. He stared at the page for a moment, at the lines forming a 'V' and an 'I'.  
"John!" he yelled at the top of his voice.  
John sighed when something woke him up. He didn't know what had done it, but he did notice immediately that his headache was still there. Great. A look at the clock told him that he had not even had six full hours of sleep.  
"John!"  
Ah. That explained why he wasn't asleep anymore. Of course Sherlock had not even come to bed. With a long-suffering sigh, John pushed himself up and grabbed his dressing robe.  
"What did you find?" he asked sleepily as he went into the room.  
"It's numerals," Sherlock said gesturing at the two pages he had already marked. "Roman numerals. It's absolutely brilliant. It's a code, but it's not the words themselves that carry meaning. It's how they are placed on the pages. It would be impossible to work out with only one book, because each book only has half of the wrong words. You have to have them both to get the whole picture. And it is a picture. An image. Now all we need is to connect the words on all the pages and we'll have a cipher, that must in some way contain the truth that Fitzroy spoke of."  
"God, they went through a lot of trouble. Making two books for all this?" John looked a bit incredulously at the copies. "I hope the message will be worth it."  
"It must be," Sherlock said with an eager grin as he picked up one of the stack of papers and pressed them into John's hands. "Scan these and print five copies of each. It may take some tries to find the correct numerals."  
"Shouldn't you rest a bit though? You've been going on and on. That code really won't run away."  
"Oh, come on John, I've done nothing but rest for over a month. Now when something exciting is practically dangling itself in front of my eyes, do you seriously expect me to stop?" He gave John's shoulder a small squeeze and then went to move the laptop, so he could get at the scanner.  
John shook his head, but started scanning.  
Sherlock couldn't keep still, and kept shifting from foot to foot as he waited. As soon as the first page was scanned, he started printing and almost ripped the paper out of the machine. He took a pen and began connecting words. Within ten minutes, most of the living room floor was covered in pieces of paper as he began grouping and regrouping the numerals. "Faster, John," he urged.  
"I can't make the scanner work faster, can I?" John answered irritably.  
Sherlock just huffed and ripped another paper from the printer, almost tearing it.  
"Bloody thing," John mumbled at the scanner, when it suddenly started to make the pages overexposed with bad contrast. There were only a few pages left, and he really didn't feel like searching through the settings for an hour to get that last bit done. Squinting at the screen, he decided that it would be legible when he printed it, and just did so.  
"Are you done yet?" Sherlock huffed, hovering by the printer. He was finding the numerals faster with every page he did, as he became familiar with the patterns, and there was nothing more he could do, before getting his hands on more pages. "What's taking so long?"  
"The scanner," John said, rolling his eyes. "It isn't exactly giving the best quality, but it will have to do."  
"Whatever," Sherlock huffed. "As long as I can see what's highlighted, the words themselves does not need to be legible."  
"Well, here are your prints," John said, waving at the printer.  
Sherlock squinted at the pages. "Oh sod it," he snapped and pushed John out of the way. With a flick of a switch he reset the scanner. Then he changed a setting and pressed 'start'. "Really, John," he muttered as he turned to the printer.  
"Yes, well, at least it works now," John said, trying not to feel too incompetent. "Why don't you do it yourself if you're so much better and faster?"  
"Fine," Sherlock said and put the final page in the scanner. "Could you give me some room to work then?"  
John sighed. "Then why did you call me in the first place?" He made a bit more room on the table, then sat down on one of the chairs, feeling like a servant that would be called in at any time.  
Sherlock took the last page from the printer with a sigh of relief. Quickly he connected the words to form the letters: 'IX'. "Another one," he mumbled and went to place it on the floor next to the others. Then he turned to look at three pages that had not yet been arranged. "But what about those?" He took the pages and started pacing the edge of the room, glaring at them.


	38. Chapter 38

John felt completely, utterly bored. 24 hours had gone by since the last page had been printed, and now all Sherlock was doing was pacing the room, glaring at the papers. Now and then he rearranged them, then shook his head, mumbling something like “of course not” and put them back, dashing to the table to take another note. The whole room was scattered with the pages, and all Sherlock had said to John in the time that had passed, was a shout when he had slightly moved one of the pages to avoid stepping on it as he went to the kitchen.  
John felt useless. This was Sherlock doing his brainwork; after all there wasn’t much that would help him in that. And yet, John knew he couldn’t even go to the shop when the detective was in a state like this, because as soon as he got there, he would receive a text summoning him back, and then a whole rant from Sherlock about abandoning a case. So there he was, virtually locked up.  
Trying to get Sherlock to eat or sleep had as much effect as talking to a wall, so John had just gone to his chair, brooding and eventually getting some sleep after all. Now all he wanted was to go out and stretch his legs, but even a little walk around the flat was not an option because of the papers everywhere. He wondered if Sherlock had even gotten any further with the code. As far as he had seen, he had tried a lot: changing the numbers into letters via different patterns, grouping the numbers. He kept scowling at the three pages which seemed different from the others, as if they had harmed him personally.  
John also wondered what would happen if it turned out that the code had never meant anything at all. Sherlock would never be able to let it go. He sighed and got up, so he could at least stretch his back.  
"John, look at this," Sherlock said and gestured to the papers which were currently gathered in a number of small stacks. "The pages in each group are spaced exactly two pages apart. But the gaps between the groups are seemingly random. And then there is this," he held up a page with 'IX' on it, "and those." He pointed to the three undeciphered pages, currently stapled to the wall. "If I can just figure out the significance of one of these, I believe the rest will make sense. But it keeps eluding me. Why groups of three? Why does one number stand alone? Why?" On the last word, he whirled towards John as if demanding that he supplied all the answers.  
John frowned. "You can't expect me to find it out if you've been looking at it for a whole day with your genius mind... Perhaps I'll try to figure it out, and you can get some sleep meanwhile?" he tried.  
Sherlock shot him a quick glare. "Don't be absurd, John." He looked back at the pages. "Why the last one?" he muttered. "Why nine?"  
"Hmm, and you have ten groups of three digits," John mused. He didn't know what to make of it either, but he tried thinking about them for a while.   
"Yes," Sherlock muttered. "Digits..." He looked at the pages. Then he gasped. "Sums! Of course. John, you are a genius." He gave John a quick kiss on the forehead, before grabbing the nearest stack of papers. He shuffled through them, jotted down four numbers on his notepad and tossed them carelessly aside before picking up the next stack.  
John looked a bit surprised at Sherlock's gasp, but smiled. At least he had finally said something with which Sherlock could work. "Can I write something down or anything?"  
At first Sherlock didn't appear to have heard him. Then he glanced at John and flashed him a brief smile. "Tea would be nice."  
"Okay." Right, so he had become the tea boy. At least that meant Sherlock wouldn't get dehydrated. He decided to put some biscuits with his cup, so he would eat a little.  
Sherlock had soon rifled through the pages and tossed them all to one side. Instead he was juggling a series of one digit numbers on his notepad.  
John brought the tea, looking over Sherlock's shoulder. "Anything meaningful?"  
"Not yet," Sherlock answered, frowning at the numbers, while he sipped his tea. "But at least it's a new way of looking at things."  
John nodded, subtly shoving the biscuits under Sherlock's hands.  
Sherlock pushed them away as he reached for the laptop and started on a new spreadsheet.  
John looked at the biscuits with a slight look of despair and decided to leave them in case Sherlock changed his mind. Of course he knew better than to really believe that would happen, but he could only hope that one day Sherlock would start caring about his own health.  
He decided it didn't mean that he had to starve to death too, and started making himself a sandwich.  
Sherlock typed in some numbers, checked his notes again and then sighed. He got up from the chair, moved to the sofa and assumed his thinking-pose. Within moments he was completely withdrawn.  
When John had eaten, he took a look at Sherlock's notepad again. Still, the numbers seemed completely random. Shrugging, he moved to his chair and put the telly on, keeping the volume down.  
Eventually there were no interesting programs on anymore, and John was nodding off again. Looking at Sherlock, who was still far away in his mind palace on the sofa, he decided to go to bed. To his surprise, he wasn't woken up until morning, and even then, not by Sherlock.  
Sherlock was lying on the sofa, scowling at the ceiling above him as if it were responsible for his current frustration.  
"Good morning," John said as he came out of the bedroom, still doing up the last buttons of his shirt. "Get any sleep?" He walked to Sherlock to give him a kiss.  
Brushing John off, Sherlock sat up with a start. "Sleep?" he snarled. "How can I possibly sleep when this whole thing is being so amazingly infuriatingly stubbornly pointless?"  
John stepped back. "It would probably do wonders for your mood though," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Breakfast?"  
Sherlock whirled on him with an almost manic glare. "Breakfast?" he asked, his voice dripping with contempt. "Breakfast? Is that the best you can do?" He jumped to his feet and started pacing the room, kicking papers and other discarded objects out of his way.  
John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock! Can you at least be a little reasonable and not molest the whole flat?"  
"Reasonable?" Sherlock threw his hand in the air. "Yes, of course I can. Let's just forget this whole thing and have a nice jolly morning, shall we?" He had reached the wall where the indecipherable pages still hung. He reached out and tore them off the wall, crumbled them up one by one and tossed them across the room.  
"Sherlock!" John ran towards him and caught his wrists. "Listen, you can't go on like this. It's driving you crazy. Just allow yourself to relax for five minutes. Just five minutes. That can't be a crime, can it?"  
Sherlock groaned and for a brief moment leaned on John, closing his eyes. "I can't," he muttered. "Don't you see I can't? Not when I'm this close. I've almost got it, but something is missing. There is one piece of the puzzle that I simply cannot see."  
John gently stroked his hair. "You'd probably see it more quickly after a break of a few minutes," he insisted quietly.  
"Right," Sherlock sighed. "I'm going to take a shower," he said abruptly and pulled away.  
"Okay." John decided against suggesting to accompany him. Sherlock absolutely didn't seem in the right mood. Still, he followed him to the bathroom. "Do you need anything?"  
Sherlock shrugged. "Clean clothes, if you don't mind."  
John brought him the clothes, then went back to the living room to straighten things up a bit. He picked up the crumpled pages and straightened them out on the table. The day before, he hadn't really paid attention to the three loose ends, since Sherlock seemed to have dismissed them. He frowned as he looked. Two of the pages just had a small word changing in the middle of the page, and the other had two marked words at the same height as the other pages, on the left and right side of the same line. If he just followed the same logic as was applied to the other words...  
"Sherlock?" he said, walking into the bathroom with the papers. "Aren't they just dots and a dash? I mean, probably punctuation marks aren't much use between numbers, but perhaps they serve to separate them from each other in some way..."  
Sherlock was washing the shampoo out of his hair, but stopped and stared at John. "What?"  
"Those three pages. Probably you've already thought of this. I just thought I should share it in case you - hadn't."  
Sherlock rushed from the shower and reached for the pages. "Let me see," he demanded.  
John gave him the papers, then took a towel and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders. He didn't even seem to notice.  
"Of course," he muttered. "Why didn't I see this?"  
"Will this help you forward?" John asked hopefully. The sooner this was solved, the sooner Sherlock would live a little healthier again.  
"It must," Sherlock said, bringing the papers into the living room. He checked the page numbers, scribbled a bit on his notepad and then drew in a long shuddering breath. "It can't be that simple," he muttered.  
The phone rang.  
"I'll get it. Put on some clothes," John said to Sherlock, before picking up his phone. His face fell almost immediately and an icy knot formed in his guts. By the time he finally put the phone down, he was leaning against a cupboard in shock. He swallowed. "Howard Fitzroy is dead."  
Sherlock appeared in the door to the bedroom, halfway through buttoning his shirt. "Oh," he said. "What happened?"  
"He- he was good, but..." John took a deep breath. "He went into septic shock. Apparently that kitchen knife had been infected with something, and he didn't make it because he had already lost so much blood. They were in time to give him antibiotics, but he was too weak and now he's dead. It's my fault, Sherlock."  
Sherlock walked straight to John and placed his hands on his shoulders. He looked him straight in the eyes and said: "Under no circumstances, in any perceivable way, is this your fault."  
John sighed and rested his face against Sherlock's shoulder for a moment. "The police thinks differently. I have to go to Blackpool, they want to question me."  
"It's just a formality," Sherlock assured him. "Do... do you want me to come with you?" He glanced over at the notepad on the table.  
John took his hand. "I know you don't want to. It's fine." He bit his lip. Yes, he would be fine, but would Sherlock? The detective looked tired and must be starving. "Just promise me that you will take care of yourself?"  
"Of course I will," Sherlock promised and kissed John's forehead. "Don't worry about me. Everything will be fine."  
John reached up and kissed his lips. It felt a little like he had to take his chance. "Okay. I'll go get my things then." He didn't let go of Sherlock's hand just yet.  
Sherlock studied John for a moment. "You'll be fine too," he said and kissed John again.  
"Let's hope so," John said with a small smile. "I never wanted him to die."  
"I know you didn't. And so will they. It will be obvious what happened." Sherlock kissed him softly. "They just need a more detailed statement, now that circumstances have changed. And if they give you any trouble, call Lestrade."  
"Yeah, alright." John let go of him and went to get his bag.   
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he promised Sherlock, who was already hunched over his laptop again, comparing something with the scribbles on his notebook. 


	39. Chapter 39

As soon as John was out the door, Sherlock went to the laptop. He already knew what the numbers meant, but he still felt the need to make sure. It just couldn't be this simple. Could it?  
It only took a moment to confirm it, and everything fit so well that there was no denying it. John had been right. The three remaining pages had indeed been a kind of punctuation, and once fitted in between the numbers, it all became clear: 51.4686 and -0.1619.The latitude and longitude of a location, right here in London, one of the few sites where something still remained from the time the books were printed: Westminster Abbey.  
But what did it mean? He launched into a thorough research of the history of the place, both factual and rumoured, and soon he was completely engrossed.

...

Most of the time, John was staring out the window during the 2,5 hours in the train to Blackpool. He couldn't concentrate on reading, and he didn't want to disturb Sherlock too much by texting him. There wasn't much he could say anyway, and he couldn't keep nagging about the other man having to sleep. Apparently the detective had had some kind of breakthrough in the code, but he was too busy to explain himself properly to John, so the latter just sat worrying and defending himself against guilty thoughts about Fitzroy's death.  
Several hours later, he was sitting in a small, dull room in the Blackpool police station, waiting and trying to convince himself that everything was alright. He had been calm during the interrogation. Everything should be alright. They had to believe him that he wasn't a murderer, that it had happened in self-defence, that he had never had the intention to kill Mr. Fitzroy. No, they hadn't broken into his house. Fitzroy had let them in, and they had gone through to the back, but never to hurt the older man. They had just wanted to locate the book so they had evidence that Fitzroy had indeed stolen it from Ian's uncle, and then – well, they would probably have called the police at that point? Only, the way everything turned out, Fitzroy himself had called the police. And then he had attacked them with a knife. No, that wasn't the most logical way for things to go, but the man had been a little mad, hadn't he? He did attack them. John was only lucky that Ian had pushed him out of the way. Surely Ian would confirm that story? Well, it wasn't a story. It was the truth. No, the broken glass had not been an act of violence, it had been an accident. It kept going on and on, and they kept giving him the feeling that they didn't believe a word of what he was saying. If they held him there for a little longer, he himself would start believing that he had been planning to kill Fitzroy for months.  
The thing was that John's sense of guilt didn't help him. In a way, he did feel like he was a murderer. And he had the feeling that the police sensed that, too; only they drew the wrong conclusions from it.  
They had allowed him a little break from all the questions now. And a cup of coffee to bring his nerves even more on edge. Owning a gun, killing a man; no-one who knew. He had never felt very guilty about that; the cabbie had been a danger to society and himself, and he had tried to kill Sherlock. But one accident with a knife, because an old fool threw himself on it, and here he was. He sighed. At least he was allowed to use his phone. He really needed to hear Sherlock after these hours of being tortured by questions.

…

Sherlock was in the middle of deciphering a medieval German text, thinking he really needed to brush up on some of his languages, when his phone rang. He sighed heavily as he picked it up. "What?"  
"Eh, hi, Sherlock. They've given me a little break. I hope I didn't wake you up?" John said.  
Sherlock just snorted, and made a note as to the possible double meaning of a phrase.  
"Okay, so you're still busy with that code. Right. Ehm. I have the feeling the police doesn't really believe me." It sounded a little ridiculous, but he needed Sherlock, just for one minute.  
"That's because they're idiots," Sherlock said. "It was an accident. It doesn't even rate as self-defence. Surely they can see that."  
"I'm not sure," John sighed. "So, did you get any further with the punctuation thing?" He was glad to think of something else for a moment.  
"Yes, I think I've almost got it worked out. But I don't want to bother you with all that now. I can tell you about it when you get home."  
"I don't mind. It's good to not think of Fitzroy for a while. Did you eat?"  
"Yes," Sherlock lied. "I'll probably take a nap as soon as I'm done with these final details." He was beginning to grow impatient. It was difficult making notes with his right hand as the cast was so restricting. He really needed to get John off the phone.  
"Okay, I'm glad to hear that. I love you. Hopefully they don't keep me here for too long..." John said.  
"I love you too," Sherlock said. "Come home as soon as you can. And don't worry. They'll see you were not responsible for what happened."  
"Okay. I have to go now, they'll call me in again in a minute. Bye, Sherlock."

...

An hour later, Sherlock got up from the laptop, and, pausing only to grab his coat and scarf, he was out the door. He hailed a cab and spent the ride continuing his research, narrowing his eyes to decipher the small writing on the screen of his phone. As an afterthought, he placed a call to the chapter office, requesting permission to search the building for 'historical clues' needed for a supposed research paper on the history of the Benedictine order.  
The permission was granted and upon arrival he was shown to the buildings that once served as home to the monks of the abbey. By then, he knew the name of the man behind the Abscondita in Aperto, though the books had never been assigned to any particular author. The monk, Bruder Joseph, had travelled from Germany to London in the early 13th century, and had been allowed to take up residence at the abbey despite belonging to a different, rather obscure order.  
According to the journal of another monk at the time, Joseph had spent a considerable part of his time not devoted to worship or writing, teaching at the neighbouring school, where he had struck up close friendships with several of the students. So close, that it had apparently led to the need for a disciplinary caution at one point, resulting in Joseph leaving the abbey and travelling to Warwick, which was where he, anonymously, had the books printed.  
Sherlock spent almost an hour studying the ancient records of the monastery before locating the chambers that had once belonged to Joseph, and then another thirty minutes convincing the man showing him around the place, to leave him alone in the room.  
Once that was achieved, it was a small matter locating the hiding place, which was almost too cliché, being located behind two loose stones in the wall in the corner of the room. Careful not to make any noise, he loosened the stones, which had not been touched for centuries, and finally sat with a ragged bundle of ancient cloth wrapped around a small flat object.  
He just had time to hide it underneath his coat, before the door behind him was opened and an outraged cry made him jump to his feet.

...

Ah. So the police really didn't believe John. They were increasingly treating him like a criminal. Perhaps it was time to follow Sherlock's advice and call Greg, but first he wanted to talk to Sherlock again. It seemed years ago since he had left home, not hours. The beeping went to voicemail. Oh, fantastic. Where was he? Had he finally gone to sleep? Somehow, John found that hard to believe – although, perhaps he had solved the puzzle and then there was no reason to be awake anymore. It would have been nice if he had sent a text, though, just so John would have known that he didn't need to try to get in touch.  
Greg, then. He pushed his number and was immediately greeted, but not by the voice he had expected. Frowning, he looked at his phone to make sure he hadn't pushed one of the numbers beneath Greg's.  
"Mycroft? What are you doing on Greg's phone?"  
"That is of no matter to you, John. Is everything alright?"  
"Yes," he answered defensively, then considered his options. "That is, not entirely," he admitted. "I was calling Greg for help. They still believe I killed Fitzroy on purpose, here in Blackpool."  
"Does it really matter so much whether a death was on purpose or not? The result is the same," Mycroft's smooth voice sounded.  
John went pale. "You're really not helping, Mycroft."  
"Oh, believe me, I am. They're getting a phone call right now. In five minutes you'll be let go."  
John sighed. "Thank you." Even though this meant that he owed Mycroft, all he could feel was relief. Somehow, the police interrogations were a lot more stressful than the act of shooting someone.

...

Sherlock refused to speak. He would not even give his name to the policemen who picked him up and charged him with vandalism. All his focus was on the little bundle hidden against his chest, how he could keep it concealed and what could possibly be inside it.

...

Mycroft had kept his word. Less than 15 minutes later, John's ordeal was over and he could go, if only he would stay at the Blackpool police's disposal by phone.  
Only when he went out, did he remember to wonder why Mycroft had answered Greg's phone anyway, but he decided it didn't matter. At least he wasn't constantly confronted with the fact that he had killed a more or less innocent man anymore.  
He tried calling Sherlock again, but without success.  
John was just in time to catch his train home. He felt relieved. Perhaps, if Sherlock was indeed asleep now, they could just cuddle during the night and have a good morning shag and go back to normal life. Well, normal for them, of course. He decided to take a nap.  
It was late when John finally arrived at the flat. It was dark and quiet, so probably Sherlock was indeed resting. Good. He had a quick shower, put on his pyjama pants and went to bed. Only it turned out that Sherlock wasn't there. John frowned, then decided to look in his own bedroom. It was always possible that for some reason Sherlock had gone there... but no. Oh god. He took his phone and called him.


	40. Chapter 40

"Please, sir," the woman who had introduced herself as Margareth Fincher said. "At least have a sandwich. You've been here for hours and you haven't had a bite to eat."  
Sherlock just grumbled and turned to face the wall. He had been placed in an interrogation room and several people had been in, trying to get him to talk. But he knew that if he gave them his name, Mycroft would be alerted the moment it was typed into a report. And he really did not want his brother anywhere near him. Not while that tantalising mysterious bundle was still hidden away under his coat. It was a good thing that the vandalism charge was so minor that there hadn't been cause to search him when he was brought in. The only reason he was still being kept here was his refusal to cooperate. His mind was racing. There had to be some way out of this without his name going on record.  
"How about a cup of tea then?" she asked. Sherlock nodded and let out a sigh of relief when she left the room. If only they would turn off those damn cameras, so he could have a look at the bundle.  
...  
John was pacing the room. Sherlock wasn't answering his phone. This was how it had been before the Harris case that had broken Sherlock's arm. Only a good week left before the cast would finally be taken off, and Sherlock was gone again without so much as leaving a note, just creating a chance for the whole situation to repeat itself. "Pick up your bloody phone!" John yelled.  
Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. "Is something wrong, dear?" She pulled her dressing robe tighter around herself.  
John sighed. "Have you seen Sherlock today?"  
"No. I heard him walk down the stairs earlier, I think..."  
"Damn it. He's off again. I really wonder if there will ever be a day when he understands how worried I get when he does this."  
Mrs. Hudson patted his arm. "You know how he is, dear. He'll turn up again, alright. Just go to bed."  
John sighed and shook his head. "No, I'm just going to keep on calling him as long as he doesn't pick up his phone. I hope it annoys him."  
...  
When Margareth returned with the tea, Sherlock was slumped forward, his head resting on his arms, which were folded on the table in front of him. At the sound of snoring, she smiled, quietly placed the cup of tea on the table at a safe distance, so he wouldn't accidentally knock it to the floor, and slipped out of the room again.  
Around half past 4 in the morning, John threw his phone down with a groan and fell asleep, despite his worries. The exhaustion from the interrogation had simply become too much and he had already lain down while he was trying to make his calls. Still, he woke up early, and immediately made another call.  
At half past six, Margareth woke Sherlock up with a fresh cup of tea. She tried to be gentle, but the moment she put her hand on his shoulder he sat up with a jerk, and almost struck out at her, before realising where he was.  
"What... What time is it?" he asked sleepily.  
"It's morning, dear," she said, looking at him with apparent concern.  
"Fuck." Sherlock quickly dug his phone out his pocket, wondering why John hadn't called. Then he realised that he had turned off his phone when arriving at the abbey, and he had not remembered to turn it back on.  
Cursing some more, he quickly turned it on. Fifteen missed calls. Damn it!  
He was just about to call, when the phone buzzed in his hand. He quickly answered it, knowing he was in for it.  
"Sherlock! God, finally. Where the fuck are you?"  
Sherlock cringed. "Charing Cross Police Station. Can you come and get me?"  
John groaned. "What did you do?"  
"Moved some stones..." Sherlock sighed. "In Westminster Abbey."  
John sighed and tiredly rubbed his face. "What the hell, Sherlock?"  
"I can't tell you about it now," Sherlock said, glancing at Margareth. "Please, just come and get me."  
"Yeah, okay. You've got a lot to explain, Sherlock," John said before he hung up and quickly got dressed.  
Sherlock stared at the phone. The tiredness and disappointment in John's voice were probably the most painful things he had ever had to endure. He hadn't thought about it when he left Baker Street. Not really. He knew John wanted him to take things easy until his arm was completely mended. He knew John wanted to be told where he went, so he wouldn't have to worry. But all that had mattered at the time, was solving the mystery.  
If only he had thought to call John last night. Even after he'd been arrested there would still have been time before John returned to the flat. Instead, he had spent the night alone at Baker Street, not knowing what had happened. Could John ever forgive him for this?  
…  
"What the hell were you thinking?" John bristled as soon as he caught sight of Sherlock. "How many times have I asked you to let me know when you're suddenly off? You hadn't slept or eaten for three days, and then you think it's a good idea to run off and wreck Westminster Abbey?"  
Sherlock couldn't quite meet John's eyes. He was also keenly aware of Margareth Fincher and a couple of other police men and women watching them with expressions ranging from bemused to shocked.  
"John," he muttered. "Can this wait?"  
"No, this can't bloody wait. I've waited all night. Just a note, Sherlock. Just three words on a paper, could you spare me that much time for once?"  
Someone in the room was definitely snickering. Sherlock glanced around, but everyone was managing to keep an almost straight face. "I'm sorry," he muttered, still not daring to face John directly. "Can we go home now?"  
John sighed. "Yes. But this isn't the end of it, Sherlock."  
"I know," Sherlock looked down and shuffled his feet a little. He reached out a tentative hand to John, not really knowing if it was okay to touch him at this time.  
John ignored the hand for a moment. "Does he need to sign anything?" he asked Margareth, who was standing closest.  
Margareth nodded and held out a form and pen, looking at them both with what seemed almost like pity. While Sherlock walked to a desk to sign, she stepped a little closer to John and said in a voice that was so low it was almost a whisper: "He fell asleep. When he woke up and realised the time, he felt really bad. Don't be too hard on him."  
John nodded. "It's just not the first time that he does this to me," he answered in the same low voice.  
...  
They reached the waiting cab in silence, but as soon as he had closed his door, John couldn't hold himself back any longer. "What the fuck have you been doing? You were supposed to go to sleep as soon as you had solved that thing. You promised me."  
"I would have," Sherlock retorted, feeling hurt and rejected. Surely John was overreacting. "But I had to go to the abbey to solve it. I had to get this." He pulled the bundle out from under his coat.  
"If you had just let me know something, I wouldn't have been worried sick all night. You're really never going to get it, are you? You just say something, but sometimes I wonder if you actually feel anything." John knew it was a painful thing to say to Sherlock, who had hardly heard anything else all his life, but he was so angry.  
The words were almost like a physical blow and Sherlock just sat there for a moment staring at John, the bundle in his hand completely forgotten. John didn't say anything more and just sat biting his lip, anger struggling with guilt and tension.  
Sherlock turned and looked out the window. After a long moment, he let out a shaky breath and then glanced down at the cursed object that had led to all this. He might as well find out what it had all been about. Carefully he unwrapped the fragile ancient cloth.  
Despite himself, John curiously looked at the thing in Sherlock's lap. It'd better be a proper mystery if it had asked so much of Sherlock's attention.  
Sherlock's fingers almost shook as he uncovered an ancient, tattered, handwritten manuscript. He turned it over in his hand and then carefully turned a couple of pages. "It's a journal," he muttered.  
"What about?" John asked. He needed to know if it was worth all this.  
"I don't know," Sherlock frowned. "It's very old and the writing isn't very clear. I'll need to examine it closely." He turned a few more pages. "I think it's a young person. A student at Westminster. And something about 'the truth'."  
John sighed. "That is what Fitzroy said. All this, and we still don't really know any more?"  
"Don't worry," Sherlock said, eagerly turning another page. "I just need to get this home. I have the right chemicals to bring out the ink, and then we can scan it and I'll have it deciphered in less than a day." He reached out and took John's hand. "I'll even get some sleep, if you don't mind doing the scanning."  
John sighed, looking at their hands. He didn't pull back. "Or perhaps we could both go to sleep and look at the journal later. It's not going to run away, is it?"  
"I suppose not," Sherlock said with a sigh. "But don't you want to know what it's all been about?"  
"To be honest, I couldn't care less, at the moment. I've had a hell of a day and a night. I'll be much more interested after a good nap with you beside me," John said.  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, closing the journal. He put his arm around John's shoulder and pulled him closer. "I haven't exactly made things easier for you, have I?"  
"No," John sighed, leaning against his chest. "I had really hoped you had learned to let me know where you are, after that thing with Harris. And that you wouldn't be so irresponsible to go out alone when you haven't slept or eaten in half a week. Sometimes it's like you don't actually realize that I love you and that it does matter what you do to yourself."  
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said again. "But you know I can't help it. When I get caught up in a case, all I can focus on is solving it. We've been over this before. I'll do my best, but I can't change who I am. It has got nothing to do with me loving you or you loving me."  
John just quietly kept sitting snuggled up to Sherlock. He was simply too tired. Of course he knew, and of course he didn't want to change Sherlock, but making him leave a quick note was hardly changing his whole character, was it? Perhaps they should discuss it another time while they weren't both exhausted. That would be safer. Reluctantly, John pushed himself up from Sherlock's chest when they arrived at the flat. For a moment he looked in his eyes and gave him a small smile before he got out.  
Sherlock returned the smile and, clutching the journal to his chest, he followed John out of the cab. All the answers would be on those pages, but John was right. They could wait a little while. Right now it was more important to make things right between them again. While John unlocked the door, Sherlock leaned down and kissed his neck softly. "You're right," he whispered. "Let's get some sleep first. Together."  
John smiled and leaned a little back against him, before he pushed the door open. He frowned as he heard voices up in their flat. He sent a questioning look to Sherlock, then walked upstairs.


	41. Chapter 41

"Ah, John. Good morning. I see you've found my brother - and Sherlock has found something too, I believe." Mycroft nodded, and two large men pinned Sherlock against the wall by his shoulders and took the journal from him.  
Sherlock cried out in protest as the book was handed to his brother. "Let me go," he snarled, struggling against the two men holding him, but it was to no avail. So instead he turned to Mycroft, practically screaming: "You can't do this!"  
"What the hell is going on here?" John asked, looking shocked. "Mycroft, what is this?"  
"The information in this journal is top secret, John. I can't allow you two to read it. It is the easiest way for all of us if you just let it happen. After all, I've also been of great help to you lately, haven't I, Dr. Watson?"  
"Then why didn't you ask decently? They're hurting him," John said, wincing as he heard Sherlock scream with anger.  
"You know well enough that that wouldn't have had any effect on Sherlock, John," Mycroft tutted. He waved and the men let him go.  
For a moment Sherlock just stood there, shaking with rage. Then he launched himself at Mycroft. He had barely taken one step when he found himself being pushed back against the wall. "You fucking bastard!" he cried.  
"Really, Sherlock, language," Mycroft said, pulling his vest straight with a condescending look.  
"But... but if you knew that we were after the journal, then why didn't you stop us before?" John asked, feeling utterly confused and far too helpless for his liking.  
"Oh, it was quite practical that someone would finally find the damn thing. We have wanted to destroy it for centuries," Mycroft said calmly.  
"Destroy it?" Sherlock was becoming hysterical. "You can't destroy it. It's... it's important. It will tell us..." Sherlock realised that he still didn't know what the journal would tell them, just that whatever was in it would justify everything that he had gone through, everything he had put John through. But he could never make Mycroft understand this. Mycroft was not interested in the truth. "It will tell us why," he whispered, knowing he was defeated.  
"Why what?" Mycroft mocked him, pulling up an eyebrow. "Ah, brother dear. You have never had the ability to separate important matters from trifles. Give up, there is nothing you can do about it. At least your beloved doctor realises as much."  
"No, I-" John started protesting. Though what could he do? It wasn't like attacking those thugs and getting shot would help them in any way. "Mycroft, can't you just show him the journal? It's not like we're going to publish the contents, and he's been on this for days. Please."  
Mycroft smiled. "No," he said, overpronouncing both letters. "I think we'd better go. Try not to ruin your flat, Sherlock. Good morning, Doctor Watson."  
This time, when he was released, Sherlock just sank to the floor. Mycroft had won, and right now, everything seemed lost. He looked up at John. How could he just stand there? Didn't he understand what had just happened? With a sigh that was almost a sob, Sherlock hid his face in his hand.  
"Sherlock..." Tentatively, John sank to his knees in front of him and put a hand on his shoulder.  
Sherlock recoiled. He couldn't bear to be touched right now. Not even by John. He just wanted to be left on his own. "Don't," he snapped.  
John sighed and sat a little back. "Sherlock, just let it go. I know it's horrible, but there is nothing we can do right now. I'm really sorry. Let's go to bed."  
"Bed?" Sherlock snorted derisively. "And how is that supposed to make anything better? But that's your solution to everything, isn't it? 'Go to bed, Sherlock', 'Get some sleep, Sherlock'." His imitation of John was cruel but accurate. "At least this way you got what you wanted, right? Now I don't have anything to stay awake for, right?"  
"I'm only thinking of your health, Sherlock," John said quietly. "This never was what I wanted."  
"No?" he spat. "You certainly were in quite a hurry to get me home and to bed. You wouldn't even give me time to get a proper look at the journal." Then suddenly he gasped, his eyes growing wide and round. "You played right into Mycroft's hands, didn't you? What did he tell you? That it was for my own good? For queen and country?"  
John looked up. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. Why would I be on Mycroft's side?"  
"I don't know. Maybe he's got some kind of hold on you. A favour, money, sense of 'obligation', blackmail..." He grabbed a fistful of hair and tugged in frustration. "I don't know. I don't care. But how else could he have known that I had the journal and was bringing it here, unless you told him?" Sherlock got to his feet and, avoiding John's eyes, began pacing.  
John let out a deep sigh. "Really, Sherlock. After all this time you should know that I'm on your side. I never took money from your brother. The only favour I asked of him was to get me out of Blackpool police station so I could return to you, but I didn't even want to call him, I was calling Lestrade! I don't know how Mycroft manages to know everything, but I didn't even know that you were off to find the journal, I hadn't heard of the bloody thing!"  
A small part of Sherlock's mind knew he was being irrational, but it was quickly losing to the rage that was surging through him. "On my side? Ever since this case started, you've done nothing but get in the way of solving it. Sleeping when we could have been working, whining about me calling one of the most important witnesses, distracting me and killing the main suspect before I got a chance to speak to him. If this is being on my side, I hope I never have to go up against you."  
John's insides turned to ice at the words, just like they had done when Fitzroy sank down on the knife. "So this is what you really think, then? I don't understand why you still allow me around you, if I'm so much trouble. 'No, it's not your fault, John.' Just until the moment you don't need me anymore. I thought it was different, that I wasn't someone you charmed like Molly or Ian, but I'm just the biggest fool of all, aren't I, Sherlock? How long have you been laughing at me for believing that you bloody loved me? As if you're able to do such a thing." John was shaking with anger.  
"I did love you, I..." Sherlock stopped and stared at John in shock. "Oh god, I mean I do... I..." He stopped again, groaned and turned away. "I can't do this..." he muttered.  
John looked up at him, his expression full of pain. "No, it's quite clear that you're shit at this, Sherlock. Everything is always about you. The smallest thing I ask is too much." Something had broken inside him, not only his voice, and now he couldn't stop the words.  
Sherlock cringed. "I've done everything like you wanted it. I stayed trapped in this hellhole for weeks and weeks, just so you wouldn't have to worry. And then when I once... once dare to do something without your permission... one tiny little thing, not even something dangerous, suddenly it's 'always about me'. When is it ever about me?"  
"It was never for my sake that I kept you in. I'm doing everything for you. And apparently you don't even see it," John sighed, feeling tired.  
"If you did everything for me, we wouldn't be here now. If you had let me go to Cardiff instead of keeping me locked up here like an invalid... If you had trusted me to be able to take care of myself, I would have solved this case days ago and I would have learned from Fitzroy why my brother was after that journal, and not have walked so stupidly right into his trap. And now... now we'll never know, will we?" Sherlock was not feeling the least bit tired. In fact he felt like he was about to burst. He looked at John as if seeing him clearly for the first time, and he felt that if he had to spend one more second in a room with this man, he was going to do something he would deeply regret. With a final exasperated huff, he whirled around, and was down the stairs and out the door in seconds.  
John let himself fall on the sofa and buried his head in his hands. Anger was still bubbling inside him, but he also felt miserable and hurt. The look on Sherlock's face, just before he had left... God, they were a mess.  
Once he was down on the street, Sherlock had no idea where he was going. It was a good thing he had not had time to get his coat off, because the air was still rather chilly. He tightened his scarf a little, turned up his collar and set off down the street, desperate to get away, no matter where to.  
...  
After a few minutes, John heard Mrs. Hudson climb the stairs.  
"Good morning, John. I heard you yelling from downstairs. You two had a little domestic?" she asked.  
"Not very little, no," John sighed, lifting his head from his hands.  
Mrs. Hudson sat down next to him. "You look like you could use a cup of tea, dear."  
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that's very kind, but I'm fine. It's just that he's the most stubborn man I've ever known."  
"Ah well. You know how it is with you two, dear. By tonight he'll be back and you'll be happily together again," she smiled.  
"I'm not even sure that that is what I want," John admitted, and then felt scared for thinking it. They should have been cuddled up in bed by now, not angry and apart from each other. Mycroft had ruined everything, and then Sherlock had made it worse, by taking it all out on John, after all he had done for him. He had even blamed him for Fitzroy’s death. He just couldn't take it right now.


	42. Chapter 42

Sherlock wandered aimlessly for almost an hour. Then, rather by force of habit than by design, he found himself heading for St. Barts. It made sense. Some time in the lab, catching up on research that had lain dormant while he was confined to Baker Street, would help get his mind off the things he did not want to think about right now.

But try as he might, he could not keep his mind from wandering back to the morning's events. Waking up at the police station. John's rebuke as he picked him up. In front of everyone at the station. Sherlock didn't usually care what people thought of him, but that had been very humiliating. Surely John must have known. Even done it on purpose, as a kind of punishment for Sherlock's disobedience.

Disobedience... As if he were a child or pet, that needed to be told its place. When had they gone from being equal partners to this? When had John become his keeper rather than his lover? And why?

His thoughts kept going round in circles until they spiralled past Mycroft's betrayal to the confrontation that followed. John had been so cold and spiteful. Why couldn't he understand the strain Sherlock had been under with this case? The agonising frustration of being kept away from the places and people that held all the information, only being granted a slow and severely inadequate trickle of data when John found it convenient and didn't overlook everything important.

But still he had solved it. And even gone beyond the original case and broken the code hidden in those century old books. A code that no one before him had even found, let alone deciphered.  
And then, at his moment of triumph, when he had been about to be given the ultimate prize, the information so vital, maybe even dangerous, that someone had gone to such lengths to hide it, that only he, Sherlock Holmes, had been able to retrieve it... At that moment: nothing. To have it snatched away. By Mycroft, of all people. It was simply unbearable. And John had just stood there. Stood there and suggested they should go take a nap! That really did seem to be John's solution to everything. But in a way, it fit. Hadn't his whole purpose through all this been to keep Sherlock as passive as possible? Locked away in the flat, preferably in bed.

But why? When had John changed from being his lover and friend to being his... jailor... well, no, not that, but his doctor? It had been like being institutionalised in his own home.

He let out a loud groan of frustration, making Molly, who had just appeared at the door, turn around and flee in confusion.

...

After Mrs. Hudson had left him alone, John threw himself down on his back on the sofa. It was no use trying to rest, tired as he was. The adrenalin of rage and annoyance kept coursing through his veins and their row was still replaying in his head. He took his laptop and opened his blog, but there was nothing he could put his mind on to write - after all he didn't feel like sharing his whole personal life with their readers, and he couldn't focus on the case right now. Probably Sherlock would only get angry about his writing anyway; he was always complaining about it as it was. Perhaps that was it. John was just never good enough. Sherlock seemed to think that he needed someone who equalled his intelligence, and John wasn't enough. Well, good luck to him if he tried to find someone who would.

With a sigh, he got up and decided to go out for a walk; anywhere where Sherlock wouldn't be. Somewhere pedestrian like the park seemed like a good idea. It was almost incredible that the great detective had ever gone there with him. And John could never be certain if that had been as a means to an end, or because Sherlock really had condescended to sentiment. He got up and shrugged on his jacket, hoping that getting fresh air would allow him some rest.

...

Sherlock had finally made up his mind. Things could not go on the way they had. He still loved John, but apparently that was not enough for them to be able to function together as a couple or whatever they had been. They would end up tearing each other to pieces.

Telling John he loved him had been the scariest thing he had ever done. Now he was facing the most  _difficult_  thing he would ever have to do: telling John that they could no longer be together. He could not stay with John and subject himself to his overprotection and need to control everything that Sherlock did. In the end it would drive him to resent or even hate John and he could not let that happen.

Rather end it now, while he could still find some joy in the memories of the time when things had been good between them. The time when it had all been about cuddling and touching and declaring their love for each other. He had been a fool not to realise that something like that could not last. The world around him was filled with evidence that love always ended. Why had he not realised that he and John were no exception to this rule?

He picked up his coat and walked out of the lab, feeling absolutely miserable. But there was nothing else to do. There was no use putting it off. He would return to Baker Street one final time, look John in the eyes and tell him it was over. From what John had said and done this morning, he doubted he would disagree.

...

John speed walked through the park for a while - he was aiming for a stroll, but he just couldn't calm down. He didn't feel like going back to the flat, where everything constantly reminded him of Sherlock. Sitting down on a bench for a minute, he called Lestrade.

"Hey. Would you like to go for a drink tonight?" he asked immediately. He almost heard Greg frowning.

"John, are you alright?"

"Not really. Row with Sherlock. I just need to be out for a while. He'll hate it if I come home pissed, hours after he's finally come back, and that's just the right thing."

"Actually I can meet you now, if you need someone. It's my day off. Shall we meet at the usual pub?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Greg. You're a great friend."

They agreed to meet half an hour later, and John started the long walk towards the pub, feeling a little better now he knew he would have company and a drink.

...

The moment Sherlock stepped through the door, he realised that John was not home. He must have gone to the shop. Or out to get some air. Well, maybe that was for the best. Sherlock could get his things packed and have them ready when John came home. Then, when they had talked, he could leave immediately, without any uncomfortableness. He went to his room and with only a little difficulty got his suitcase out from under the bed.

It was not easy packing with his arm still in the cast. At least that would soon be over. It was due to come off in a week. He wondered if things might have been different if he had not been so severely injured from Harris' attack. Would John still have been so controlling? Maybe, if Sherlock could have gone out on cases more often, it would not have developed into this. Was it all a case of cabin fever, culminating in the frustration of Mycroft's interference?

No. He could not allow himself to try and explain it this away. John had been trying to restrict him even before he got hurt. Constantly demanding he let him know where he was going and not do anything 'dangerous'. What had happened was inevitable. Perhaps it had happened sooner this way, and that was for the best. If things had carried on longer, this would have been even more painful. As it was, it was almost more than he could bear.

If John came through the door right now, could he stop himself? Would he rush to him and kiss him and touch him and beg him to somehow fix this? He closed his eyes, for a moment picturing John smiling up at him, stroking his hair and promising that everything would be okay. But it wouldn't be. It couldn't.

Sherlock sighed and continued packing.

...

"The thing is that I don't even really know where I want this to go," John sighed as he put down his pint. Actually it was far too early in the afternoon to start drinking, but Lestrade somehow looked like he could use it too, although he didn't seem to want to talk about it like John. The DI always was a good listener and a good friend, despite having his own problems, John had found out with time.

"Being with Sherlock has been absolutely great,  _he_  was great, but now I just don't know. I killed a man, Greg, even though it was an accident, but he just used it to hurt me, without thinking, and I snapped. I don't know if we can fix this, and yet, I don't believe he will even manage on his own. Probably he's just back tonight or tomorrow. And I don't know what I should do. I should never have taken things further with him."

...

Sherlock had been waiting for John to come home for almost two hours. He had packed most of his clothes, his laptop and the two copies of the  _Abscondita_. Anything else he could come back for some other time. He had tried sitting down, but was too restless. For some time he had been looking down the window, expecting to see John any minute, dreading the conversation they would have.

Now he was pacing the flat, vaguely registering the familiarity with which he moved through its space. He would probably miss this place too. It had become a real home to him. Still, it would be nothing compared to the loss of John.

He couldn't take it anymore. He knew that the longer he waited, the harder it would be. What if he cracked when he saw John? What if he couldn't do it, couldn't say goodbye? Then it would be back to the same old thing. The passion and tenderness would be there, but it would soon give way to the bickering, the accusations and the growing sense of claustrophobia. He couldn't risk it.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, Sherlock gathered up his bags and headed for the door. It was better if he was gone before John came home. Better for the both of them.

...

John went up the stairs a little unsteadily. The long hours in the pub had made the amount of alcohol he had consumed acceptable, but still it had its effect, and at least it would be enough to make him sleep for a while. It was still too early in the evening to expect Sherlock back, and he decided to go sleep in his own room to avoid him. The sheets needed changing after weeks of disuse, but for now he didn't care and just undressed and slumped down.


	43. Chapter 43

John woke up in the middle of the night, uncomfortably warm because of the alcohol. He groaned and turned on his other side, but soon it was clear that he would have to get up to go to the bathroom and to have a glass of water. He wondered if Sherlock was back in his own room, but obviously he wouldn't go to check. That would only end with John climbing into his bed, and he wasn't ready to forgive him that easily.

He went back to his room, and after some tossing and turning went back to sleep.

...

Ian stood next to the car, waiting, as Sherlock exited the train station. He smiled a little nervously as he held out his hand. "Welcome to Cardiff."

Sherlock shook his hand and nodded in reply, not really meeting Ian's eyes.

As he held the car door open for Sherlock, the young man said: "I was a bit surprised when you texted. We did not expect you to bring the book yourself."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wanted to see the books returned safely," he said. "And I was planning a trip anyway."

"Oh." Ian sat in silence for a while as the car turned and headed out of the city. Then he glanced at Sherlock and asked: "So, you must be feeling better, if John let..."

"I want to thank you," Sherlock interrupted.

Ian looked a little stunned. "Thank me?"

"Yes, for all your help with the case and especially for... for saving John's life down in Blackpool."

"Oh yes," Ian nodded. "That. I was glad I could help."

There was another period of silence. Then Ian cleared his throat. "How is John?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "I suppose he's fine."

Ian frowned at him, but didn't say anything more, before the car was approaching Gryffydd Hall. "Uncle will be so pleased to have the book back."

Sherlock almost sighed in relief at the change of subject. "Yes, I expect he will. In fact I'm bringing him both books."

"Both books?"

"Yes," Sherlock smirked. "It turned out that the owner of the other copy was killed in a rather serious drug-related incident at his home in Brazil, three years ago. He left no heirs, so there was no obvious owner of the book. As the ones who recovered it, the book could be said to belong to you and John, and since he has no interest in it, I thought it best to bring the book to you. I thought your uncle would know the best thing to do with it."

…

Gryffydd had been delighted to not only have his book back, but be given custody of the only other copy in existence as well. After thanking Sherlock profusely, he retreated to his study to examine the conditions of the two books in detail.

Ian offered to make Sherlock a cup of tea and showed him to the sitting room. While Ian was in the kitchen, Sherlock took out his phone and frowned at the screen. He did not expect John to text or call, but with each hour that went by, he grew more and more desperate as he obsessively kept checking his phone. Just in case.

When he heard Ian approach, he quickly returned the phone to his pocket. As the young man entered with the tea tray, Sherlock smiled at him. He barely bit back a chuckle as Ian blushed and put down the tray, on which the cups were rattling slightly. John certainly hadn't been wrong about this one.

It was strange, really. He had only met Ian once before, and then talked to him on the phone a few times. And still it seemed he could make his heart skip with nothing but a smile.

But John, whom he loved, and for whose sake he had gone to unbelievable lengths, trying to change his very nature, to make John happy and for him not to have to worry... With John, not even this had been enough. The way he had looked at him this morning. Sherlock quickly pushed the thought away and focused on answering the question Ian had just asked.

"No," he said. "I don't plan on returning to London tonight. There are no more trains before morning. I've booked a room in a hotel down town."

"Oh no," Ian protested quickly, blushing even more. "I mean, we have a guest room. It is only right you should stay here, after everything you have done for us... for uncle."

Sherlock nodded. He really would prefer to stay at Gryffydd Hall. The place was comfortable. Almost familiar, probably because of the descriptions and pictures he had received from John. "Thank you. That would be lovely."

As Ian showed him up to the room, he glanced at the suitcase and bag Sherlock was carrying. "Are you planning a trip after this?" he asked, tentatively.

"No," Sherlock answered flatly. "I'll be looking for a new place to live."

...

By the time John woke up again, it was well past morning. Clearly he had needed his rest. He groaned as he half opened his eyes and sunlight fell in, making his head ache. He had a bad taste in his mouth. Groaning, he went downstairs and got a glass of water, before he noticed that Sherlock's bedroom door was open. A quick look inside told John that the bed was neatly made. He frowned; it hadn't been like that the day before. So Sherlock had been back, but he was gone already? He went inside. The periodic table had been taken off the wall and everything else that had been Sherlock's was gone. John's stomach dropped. Ah. That meant Sherlock had seriously ended this. And rather cowardly too, just getting in without saying a word. So he had really felt that their relationship couldn't be saved? Yes, the row had been pretty bad, but John had still had the idea that it would only temporarily split them up. Though apparently that had been all it took.

After the first shock of Sherlock's departure had sunk in, John felt almost as angry as during the row. He made himself breakfast, clattering his cup and plate too hard against the counter. Fine. Fine, then that was it. He supposed he wouldn't see Sherlock again, and really, if he hadn't even wanted to give it a second chance, John didn't care.

He brought his food to the table, his hands trembling, and ate almost aggressively. As long as he was angry enough, he could keep down the pain.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson came in, looking a bit worried as soon as she saw his expression. "Is everything alright? Where is Sherlock?"

"Gone," John said grimly. "Took his possessions and bolted."

Mrs. Hudson pressed a hand against her mouth. "Surely he wouldn't really leave, dear."

"He has. Don't make it worse by saying that he wouldn't." Clenching his fists so his nails pressed painfully into his palms, he managed not to take out his anger on Mrs. Hudson. She put a hand on his shoulder.

"He didn't even say anything. He must have been here while I was sleeping, or perhaps already when I was out yesterday."

"I haven't seen him, dear," Mrs. Hudson answered the unasked question. "I was with Mrs. Turner yesterday afternoon..."

John turned his eyes down. So Sherlock had made his decision that quickly. Maybe it hadn't even been the row. He could have wanted to get away from John for ages, as far as he knew. He had to bite his lip, hard.

"I'll give you a moment," Mrs. Hudson said gently, before leaving the flat.

John let out a shuddering breath and swallowed away the tears of frustration.

…

In the morning, Ian was very quiet as he served breakfast to Sherlock and his uncle. When he had poured the tea, he sat down, deliberately not looking at Sherlock.

This puzzled Sherlock for a moment. Last night, Ian had not been able to keep his eyes off him, at least when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. Then he realised. Ian knew now that John and Sherlock were no longer together. Everything had changed. Sherlock was no longer so unobtainable in his eyes, and for some reason it made him nervous.

He almost chuckled at the thought.

Professor Gryffydd had been reading, but now he looked up at Sherlock. "Ian tells me that you do not have any immediate plans."

Sherlock nodded.

"I may have a suggestion then."

…

Gryffydd had decided to send the extra copy of the book to a small museum in Warwick, since the books were originally printed there. He wanted to write down the myth, history and mystery of the books, and needed Sherlock's help in filling in the newest information. It turned out that he had already been contacted by Mycroft and instructed not to include details of how the code worked or what and where it had pointed to. Still there was a lot to tell, and he offered Sherlock a significant fee for his assistance.

So Sherlock had agreed to stay on for a week, to help with the work. He could use the money when it was time to get a place of his own, and the stay at Gryffydd Hall would help him put some distance both geographically and temporally between himself and life at Baker Street. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that less than a week ago, John had been staying in the very guest room where he now slept.

Ian seemed to be constantly in the vicinity and whenever Professor Gryffydd requested a break, he'd be there with a cup of tea, eager to talk. Sherlock found that he did not mind the constant chatter. Ian did not seem to expect a response, so he could just tune out and let his mind relax. In fact, he suspected that the constant noise helped him keep his mind off other things.

When the week had passed, Sherlock found he had grown so comfortable at Gryffydd Hall, that he did not hesitate to accept when he was asked to stay another week, since the work on the history of the books had proven more expansive than originally assumed.

...

John didn't send a text. Once he had calmed down a little, he considered it – to ask why Sherlock had taken such a drastic measure in something that still could have been saved, or to scold him some more, he didn't know. But it was no use anyway. This was Sherlock's decision, and if he hadn't wanted to talk about it, John knew him well enough to know that it was no use trying it anyway.

He didn't really manage to enjoy the rest that Sherlock's absence brought along. Yeah, it was good to have a fridge without body parts and a kitchen table that wasn't covered in experiment set-ups, but there was no chance of being pulled along on a case either. He knew he should find something to keep himself busy. He didn't want to apply at St. Bart's, since the chance was too big that he would run into Sherlock, on one of his many visits to the labs. Apart from that, getting a job sounded like a great idea, as it would give him something to put his mind to and he would earn some money as he went.

In the end, he found a vacancy in Charing Cross Hospital. It was a little further away than Bart's of course, being more than half an hour away by public transport, but at least it was on the other side of the city than where Sherlock would usually be, and the job sounded good, even though it was only temporary.

Just like earlier with Sarah, his CV was impressive enough to get him the job and he could start the next Monday. Quite possibly it helped that his boss was a female doctor of about his age, named Mary. She was pretty, but rather stern-looking, and always sounded short, as if making conversation asked too much of her time while she hurried from place to place in the hospital.

The days on which he worked passed quickly and put his mind off things. In the evenings, he was too tired to stay awake for long, so it went well. He dreaded his days off, though. If there was no-one he could meet, he'd just sit alone in the flat, and of course he missed Sherlock. In the first days, he had resented to admit it to himself, but he couldn't tell himself that he didn't mind that the other wasn't lying with his head in his lap while he was reading, and that they didn't start clawing at each other in a dull moment. He was back to where he had been before he met Sherlock, only in a nicer flat, but probably he couldn't even keep paying the rent for more than a few months without Sherlock's share.

A few months. He still had difficulty believing that it was really over. Perhaps their romantic relationship was lost, but wouldn't there even be a time when they were ready to take up their friendship again and work together? Live together? Or would things be too weird and uncomfortable? Surely Sherlock, who never cared about social conventions, wouldn't let a passing awkward moment stand in the way of what he wanted - so that was what it all came down to in the end. And if Sherlock felt anything like he did, he had no idea what he actually wanted, and just took things like they were at the moment: lonely.


	44. Chapter 44

About a week after John had started working, he got a call from Mycroft in the evening. He resisted the urge to put the phone down immediately, and answered, coldly polite.

"Good evening, John. How are you?"

"Fine," John said shortly.

"Good to hear that," Mycroft said smoothly. "I heard you found work at Charing Cross Hospital."

"Yeah right, you'll surely have  _heard_  that. Why are you still stalking me when I don't have anything to do with your brother anymore?" John asked impatiently.

Mycroft actually sounded a little taken aback. "Surely you'll get in touch with him again at some point."

John huffed. "I don't know, and it's none of your business anyway. Have you heard anything from him?" He could hear Mycroft hesitate for a moment before he answered, truthfully for once.

"No. You know how he was after I took the journal away. He only came to resent me even more than he already did. But he is safe. I know that the only thing we really have in common is worrying about Sherlock, but he's alright in Cardiff."

"In Cardiff?" John asked, his eyebrows flying up.

"Yes, he brought Professor Gryffydd the books, and is staying in his guest room," Mycroft explained.

Oh, fantastic. And he was still there. Apparently it  _was_  possible for Ian to get what he wanted. "I'm sure he enjoys himself there," John said wryly.

"Professor Gryffydd seems to have employed him once again," Mycroft said.

Employed? Did he have another lost book? John had difficulty biting down his curiosity; after all it was not a part of his own life anymore. "Okay. Thank you, I guess."

"You're welcome. And John... If at some point you feel ready to contact him, please do so. I'm not sure you realise how much your company changed his whole life for the better."

John sighed. "It doesn't suit you to get sentimental, Mycroft. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, John."

Mycroft sounded tired in those last few words. Worried, then. Apparently Ian wasn't as good an influence on Sherlock as he thought John had been. Yet, they were less likely to argue, as Ian would bend to Sherlock's every whim anyway, unlike John, who had a character of his own, thank you very much. What would Sherlock tell the boy? That he hadn't charmed him on purpose, that they had developed a bond and that he had fallen in love with him? Come on. Probably it hadn't even been true that Sherlock had never had a relationship before John, then, if it had been so easy for him to go to Cardiff and live with another man within days.

That night, John had difficulty falling asleep, cursing himself because he knew how early he would have to get up again for work. When he finally drifted off, he was on the battlefield, seeing his friends fall and finally jolting awake as the bullet hit his heart. He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

…

It was on Sherlock's last evening at Gryffydd Hall, that Ian finally worked up his nerve to make a move, probably motivated by the fact that it was his last chance. His uncle had left early in the afternoon to bring the book and the history that he and Sherlock had produced to Warwick in person, and to attend the small ceremony that had been planned for the inclusion of the book into the museum's collection.

Ian had cooked a dinner that went beyond the usual high standards at Gryffydd Hall, and Sherlock had actually enjoyed the meal. He suspected that Ian had been making note of his preferences since the food and portion sizes had changed to become more and more to his liking, during his stay.

It was a quite unusual feeling to have someone so focused on his actual needs, rather than what he was expected to require. But he supposed Ian did the same for his uncle and it was second nature to him. It was also undeniably clear that Ian had grown, if possible, even more fond of Sherlock and increasingly eager to please him.

To his surprise, Sherlock had found that he quite enjoyed the attention and constant pampering. And Ian asked so little in return. As long as Sherlock listened politely and smiled at him occasionally, Ian seemed content and happy to the point of giddiness. In a way it was quite endearing, he supposed. The term 'smitten' was probably the most appropriate description of Ian's feelings towards Sherlock.

As they enjoyed a glass of wine after dinner, Ian grew quiet, and Sherlock found himself thinking more about his own situation than he had since arriving in Cardiff. He had kept himself busy and thus managed to reduce the pain of missing John to a dull ache in his chest and at the back of his mind. And now, when he allowed himself to feel for the first time since leaving Baker Street, he realised that the pain did not rush over him, as he had expected it would. It still hurt, but he could handle it.

He looked up and found that Ian was watching him intently. The young man was really very pretty, Sherlock mused. And he was so gentle and easy to get along with. So completely unlike John who had been difficult, demanding, interesting, thrilling, sexy... Sherlock suppressed that line of thought immediately.

What would it be like to be with someone like Ian, he wondered. Someone who would never try to change him, but adore him exactly as he was. Someone who would never stand in his way but rather follow in his footsteps, ready to aid him, whether it was with the work or something simple and mundane.

A relationship with Ian would certainly be easier. But what about kissing? Closeness and sex? Would that be simpler too? Would that make it better? Or less thrilling? Ian would surely never push him up against the bathroom wall and take him like... No, he refused to think of it. Not now. Not ever again. Those thoughts would always be too painful.

Ian was smiling at him, blushing slightly. He seemed to do that a lot. He cleared his throat. "Did John tell you..." he began, but then seemed to lose his nerve.

Sherlock returned his smile. "That you were interested in me? Yes, he did mention that. He was rather jealous, I think." Sherlock chuckled.

Ian looked away. "Yes, I can understand that. Though it was not like there was really anything to be jealous about... Right?"

Okay, Sherlock thought. This was it. If he was to find out if things with Ian would be simpler, better or just different from John, this was the most obvious opportunity he would be given. "Oh, I don't know," Sherlock said with a smile. "He must have sensed the connection we had. I know I did, during those phone calls."

Ian practically gasped. "Connection? So... so you felt it too? I wasn't just imagining?"

Sherlock chuckled softly. "Oh, come now, Ian. How could you imagine something like that? It was clear from the first time we talked, that we have a certain chemistry."

Ian sat stunned for a moment, then he practically leapt out of his chair and went to Sherlock's, kneeling down in front of him. "I thought so too," he said eagerly, taking Sherlock's hand in his. "But you were with John. He said it was serious..."

"Well..." Sherlock leaned forward a little. "I'm not with John anymore, am I?"


	45. Chapter 45

Suddenly Ian's lips were on his, hesitant and soft, but with a hint of a desperate passion that must have been building up in him for days. Sherlock had expected some kind of thrill, like the first time he kissed John. A fluttering in his stomach, a shortness of breath. But he felt nothing. He was just slightly embarrassed on Ian's behalf.

But he had asked for this, had he not? How would Ian feel if he pushed him away now with a 'Sorry, not interested'? In the past, he would not have cared, but he remembered John's concern for the young man's feelings and realised that the right thing, the polite thing to do, would be to give him a chance.

So Sherlock put a hand on Ian's cheek and returned the kiss, mentally adjusting to how he seemed to prefer it. It was very different from kissing John. The kiss didn't last long. Ian pulled away, watching Sherlock with a mix of eagerness and apprehension. Sherlock tried smiling kindly at him, but Ian did clearly not see what he had been expecting.

He looked crestfallen. "Oh, god. Forgive me, I..."

"No, it's okay," Sherlock said quickly. "I suppose it is just too soon after..."

Ian nodded. "Yes, of course. I'm sorry." He got up and walked away, stopping at the window, staring out into the darkness.

Sherlock got to his feet and approached him. "No, it's me who is sorry," he said, searching for the right thing to say. "I thought I wanted this... I really like you. It's just that John and I were together for a long time, and..."

Ian turned to him and smiled. "I understand. I'm sorry, I should have realised that you weren't ready." He took a step towards him and gently stroked Sherlock's cheek. "Maybe in time..."

"Maybe," Sherlock lied, suddenly desperate to get away. Ian was sweet and attractive, but he was not John. And right now, the only person he wanted to see, the only person he could bear touching him, was John. He managed a smile. "I better get some sleep," he said. "I have to catch a train early tomorrow."

Ian nodded. "Of course."

Sherlock could feel his eyes on his back as he left the room, fighting the urge to just run and hide.

...

On the train back to London, Sherlock considered getting in touch with John for the first time in over a week. The incident with Ian, the previous night, had made him realise that though some things about life with John had been difficult, the good things had far outweighed them. How could he have been so stupid to let a brief moment of frustration ruin everything they had had? How could he have blamed John for Mycroft's interference? And all the terrible things he had said...

He buried his face in his hands for a moment. What was done, was done. He could not go back. Not now. He sent a text to Lestrade instead, informing him that he was returning to London and asking if he was needed on any new cases. Soon, a reply confirmed that indeed his help was needed and it would be appreciated if he could stop by New Scotland Yard as soon as it was convenient.

…

After having left his things in the hotel room where he would be staying until he could find permanent lodgings, Sherlock went to meet Lestrade. The case seemed pretty simple: some expensive jewellery had disappeared from a hidden safe in the home of a wealthy business woman. Only the most valuable items had been removed, leaving several pieces that were of sentimental value to the woman.

Sherlock visited the flat, spoke with the woman and then returned to his hotel and set to work on his laptop. The next morning, he called Lestrade to explain that it was a simple case of insurance fraud, orchestrated by the woman's ex-husband without her knowledge. He had some rather pressing debt and had wanted to ask for her help. But he had discovered that she did not at that time have the available funds to help him, so he had taken it upon himself to create some cash flow. He had not attempted to sell the items, which Sherlock suspected he was planning to return to her at some later time. They could most likely be found at his residence.

Lestrade was grateful for the help and promised Sherlock to let him know as soon as something else arose.

With the case solved, Sherlock set about the much harder task of finding a new place to live. It took him almost a week to find a small flat in West Kensington that he could just afford. By that time, he had had the cast removed and was ready to start working again in earnest. He changed the contact information on his website, and soon a small trickle of cases began. He tried to bury himself in his work, but as the weeks passed, he found that he had lost the drive. It really was just work now.

 

...

The nightmares returned almost every night now, awakening John breathless and sometimes in tears. If it went on like this, he would have to see his therapist again, and then how pathetic would he sound? 'My boyfriend left and now the war is haunting me again.' John snorted at the thought.

He knew it was time to take things in his own hands. The weeks that had passed, had proven that Sherlock wouldn't be coming back, and he had to move on. He couldn't spend his spare time feeling bad and lonely in a too large flat for the rest of his life. Maybe he should find himself a girlfriend, so he would at least have a comforting body with him in bed, and he could build himself a new life. A normal life, after he had gotten used to the danger and thrill of living with Sherlock? God, no. He wasn't ready for that.

...

On his next day off, he called Lestrade for a night at the pub. It had been quite a while since he had seen him, and John had to admit that he had avoided him, as the subject would inevitably change to Sherlock at some point.

"So you and Sherlock have broken up."

There you had it. "Yeah."

"I saw him on a case, two weeks ago. Stolen jewellery that turned out to be an insurance fraud, nothing too special, but he really needed something to occupy his mind. He's found himself a new flat," Greg said.

"Ah. So he's back in London. Cardiff must not have been such a success, then," John said flatly.

Greg looked a little confused. "From what I have heard, it actually was. He helped that old book collector with something for a museum in Warwick. I didn't quite catch the finer details."

"Oh. I thought... I didn't know he really had a job there." John felt a little uncomfortable. Had it not been for Ian that Sherlock had gone there, after all?

"Why else would he be there?" Lestrade asked.

John shrugged. "Dunno. I don't really know what he's been up to. Somehow I thought I would have heard about it sooner if he returned to London."

Greg sighed. "Neither of you look very good at the moment, if you don't mind me saying. You should talk to him."

John shrugged again and changed the subject.


	46. Chapter 46

Little more than a week after their night in the pub, John was working late, and he realised that it would be too late to go to the shop if he travelled home first. The fridge in the flat was almost empty, so he decided to go to a shop near the hospital, and to take a cab home for once, so he didn't have to carry everything on the tube.

…

Sherlock was on his way home. The case had been another stupid incident of paranoia and misunderstandings. But at least it had earned him enough to pay the rent this week. He stopped at a corner shop to buy cigarettes. He had started smoking about a week ago and was already up to two packs a day. The annoying part was that he couldn't really enjoy it. Every time he lit a cigarette, he felt John's accusing stare on him. Like right now. He could actually see him standing right there across the street glaring at him.

Sherlock froze, his hands still cupped around the cigarette to protect the flame from the wind. John was actually standing across the street, looking at him. But he wasn't glaring. He looked as shocked as Sherlock felt. Sherlock lowered his hands, not noticing the cigarette as it fell to the ground. He was about to call out to John when a bus pulled up in front of him blocking his view. He tried to peer through the windows, but it was too crowded.

When the bus finally left, John was gone.

...

Loaded with bags from the shop, John groaned when he didn't immediately see a cab. Looking around, a familiar head of black curls suddenly caught his eyes. No, surely it couldn't be... He looked again and found himself staring at Sherlock, his mouth a little open and his stomach making a strange leap. Coat, scarf, cheekbones and pale eyes; it was unmistakably him. Then a bus arrived on the other side of the street, and a cab finally stopped in front of him, so he got in.

God. He had almost forgotten how beautiful Sherlock was. What was he doing there? He hadn't looked like it was his intention to run into John, but then, you never knew with Sherlock's acting skills. Had he been lighting a cigarette? Damn.

 

In the night, he wasn't plagued by nightmares, but he woke up rock hard. God, he had only  _seen_  the man for a few seconds, it really shouldn't affect him so. He got up and took quick care of things in the shower, then left for work in a hurry. The whole day he kept feeling distracted, his thoughts turning back to Sherlock. Why had he ever been so stupid to risk his friendship with the detective? That day, when it had seemed a good idea to give him a hug because he was bored, John had spoiled everything. Of course he had loved Sherlock and he had noticed how beautiful the man really was by then. His ongoing exclamations of not being gay had seemed ridiculous in the end, because why would a label be so much more important than the strong bond they had? And thus he had given in to what he wanted, thinking too little of what was good for Sherlock. It was his own fault that the one thing he had never wanted to happen, had occurred. He had ruined their friendship, and nothing could be worth that. Ever since the day he had met Sherlock, his happiness had only increased, until the one day he had felt the need to insult and hurt the man in that fateful row. Perhaps he should contact Sherlock after all. Tell him that it didn't have to be like this, that they could just be friends. Yet, he couldn't be certain that the other man was ready.

…

Sherlock hadn't slept since he had seen John. At first he had tried to tell himself that he had been mistaken. It had been someone who looked like John. Or perhaps he had finally snapped and imagined him there. But a quick online search told him that John was currently working at Charing Cross, not too far from where he had seen him.

Every single day, Sherlock considered walking by the hospital, just in case he might run into John again. And every day he didn't. What would he say? After the way he had left? It had made sense at the time. Making it less painful for the both of them. But he had come to realise that John would not have seen it like that. To him, Sherlock had just run off without any explanation or even a word of goodbye. It was this knowledge that had kept him from contacting John, even though he desperately wanted to. He had hurt him too badly. First with the terrible accusations and then by leaving him in such a cruel way. He had no right to hurt him anymore. He had to leave John alone, and let him get on with his life.

But he just couldn't. Not without at least seeing John again. Telling him that he had been wrong, that he was sorry, and that he desperately wished that they could rebuild at least a small part of what they had once had.

…

A couple of days after he had seen John, Sherlock got a phone call from Lestrade, telling him he had better come to the Yard immediately.


	47. Chapter 47

John sat fidgeting on a chair in the corridor outside Lestrade's office, wondering why he was there. The DI had sounded agitated when he had called, and John had hurried to the Yard, but now he was here, waiting till he would finally be called in. A door opened at the far end of the corridor, but he didn't look up, since people were walking through the building all the time.

 

Sherlock was rather annoyed as he walked in. He really disliked being summoned without any kind of explanation. It just felt too much... Mycroft. Then suddenly he stopped, glued to the spot.  
"What... What are you doing here?" he asked John.

John looked up and was once again reduced to staring for a moment, before his brain started working again. "Greg called me in," he said quickly. "I had no idea you would be here too."

"Me too," Sherlock said. "I mean, me neither... You know what I mean."

He stood for a moment, looking anywhere but at John. Then he frowned. "You don't suppose he called us here just to... meet?"

John sighed. The thought had also just crossed his mind, and he really hoped that that wasn't Lestrade's goal. He did want to talk to Sherlock, but not after a tiring day at work, when someone  _else_  decided it was time. "It sounded like something serious was going on," he said, trying to keep his eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. It did."

At that moment Lestrade opened the door to his office. "Oh good," he said. "You're here. Come on in." He seemed unsettled and nervous, Sherlock thought. This could turn out to be interesting. If only he knew why John was here. This was not how he would have chosen for them to meet. If he had been able to work himself up to actually contacting John, that was.

John looked from Greg to Sherlock. If this had been some plan of Sherlock's... He didn't know what he should think then. But it didn't seem so. Sherlock looked a bit confused and eager to hear what was going on, and it seemed like a natural expression rather than a carefully put-on one.

"Why are we here?" John asked Lestrade.

As Lestrade closed the door, he turned to look at them both, his face lined with worry.

"We have a problem," he said. "Harris has been released. There were some problems with the evidence and one of his former victims backed out of testifying. So they couldn't hold him anymore. Rumour has it that he'll be looking for Sherlock with the intent of 'finishing the job'."

He looked directly at Sherlock. "I don't think I need to remind you just how dangerous this man is. So until we can figure something out, you cannot go out on your own. I would get you a police escort if I could, but, the situation being as it is..." He shrugged, looking very uncomfortable.

"I see," Sherlock said and thought for a moment. "So, John will get dispensation to carry his gun, I presume."

"Wow, wait. I'm becoming his bodyguard?" John said, looking a little desperate at Greg. "I- I have a job. I can't be with him all the time."

Lestrade smiled a little sheepishly. "Yeah, well, it’s the plan for tonight, anyway," he said. "Mycroft will send one of his men in the morning."

Sherlock huffed. "He most certainly will not!"

"Ah." John looked a little awkward, but then he didn't want to leave Sherlock unguarded either, if there was no-one else. "That's alright, I suppose. As long as we don't kill each other instead," he added, looking down at the desk

Lestrade chuckled weakly. "I'm sure you can manage for one night. Right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded and turned towards the door. "Will that be all?" he asked as he opened it.

"Yes, but..." Lestrade began, but Sherlock was already striding down the corridor.

John hesitated before he went out, giving Lestrade a questioning look.

 

Sherlock waited for John before stepping outside. He quickly got them a cab. As it stopped, he turned and looked at John for the first time since their meeting in the hall.

"Do you have your gun with you, or do we need to go and get it?" he asked.

"I brought it," John said. "I was just back from work when Lestrade called, and with him sounding so worried it seemed like a good idea. Where are we going?" He felt a bit like the first time he had shared a cab with Sherlock, only now he already knew how amazing the genius was, and he had even more reason to feel awkward.

"If Harris is looking for me," Sherlock said, "he will probably start at my place. So that will be the best place to start looking for him." He gave the address to the cabbie.

"Yeah, Lestrade should have known better than to expect you to go sit and wait patiently for Harris," John said, attempting a small smile. "So, er, do you like your new flat?"

"It's a dump," Sherlock said flatly. He was staring out the window. A myriad of questions crowded his mind: 'How is the new job?', 'What have you been doing?', 'How have you been?', 'How  _are_  you?', 'Have you missed me?', ' _Do_  you miss me?', 'Can you ever forgive me?', 'Do you still love me?'... But none of them found their way to his lips.

John quietly looked out the window, not knowing what to say. Of course there were so many things he wanted to know and wanted Sherlock to know, but there didn't seem to be a good starting point.

"You went to Cardiff," he blurted out eventually.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. With the books." He was glad he hadn't asked John any of those questions. He was clearly still angry and hurt, if this was the only thing he was interested in about their time apart. Then his stomach dropped. Maybe he knew about the kiss. Maybe he had talked to Ian. Not that Sherlock had been wrong to kiss Ian. He and John were no longer together at the time. But still... He had hoped John would never know.

"I was told that Professor Gryffydd had a job for you there." John simply had to know if that was true. It made a lot of difference towards how he felt about what had happened if Sherlock hadn't run to Ian.

"Yes," Sherlock glanced at him, trying to hide how relieved he felt. "He wanted my help on writing the history of the books. And the myth. He paid me a very handsome fee."

"Ah. I thought you were never interested in money." John couldn't hide a smile in his eyes.

Sherlock huffed. "I needed it," he said. "For a... place." He shifted uncomfortably in the seat. They were very close now to talking about what he wasn't sure he could handle talking about.

"We could have... discussed it." John heard how empty his words sounded, but he meant so much more.  _You didn't have to leave._

"I know..." Sherlock muttered. "I just didn't know... then." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

The cab stopped. Sherlock quickly paid the fare and then practically jumped out of the cab. He could not handle this. Not yet.

John watched Sherlock as he walked in front of him to show him into his flat. Apart from the beauty that had struck John once again, the detective looked thinner than the last time John had seen him, and there was something in his eyes that just looked... off. Probably he hadn't been taking much care of himself then. It made John feel guilty. If he had contacted Sherlock earlier, it would perhaps never have come so far, and now he hardly dared to hope that they could mend their friendship.

Sherlock could feel John's eyes on his back. He had to fight the urge to turn around and just kiss him senseless right there and then. But that would be wrong. That was not how things were between them anymore. He opened the door and cringed at the sight of the mess and clutter. For a moment he considered the option of just closing the door again and going somewhere else. But he needed a change of clothes before they went in search of Harris. And he had wanted to offer John a cup of tea. If he had any milk. With a sigh, he stepped aside to let John enter.

John's eyes darted around quickly. He had intended to say that the place looked nice, but the small space and the chaos made that impossible if he didn't want to tell lies that Sherlock would immediately see through anyway. Instead, he bit his lip and quietly sat down, trying to ignore the cigarette smell that made it hard to breathe in the flat.

Sherlock quickly removed two stacks of books and a tissue sample from the small table. "Tea?" he offered, not really meeting John's eyes.

"Yeah, thanks," John answered. At least he'd have something to do with his hands then.

Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, only upsetting one pile of papers in the process. He opened the fridge and sighed. Completely empty. "I don't have any milk, though," he called. "Would that be okay?"

"It's fine," John said, looking back over his shoulder, and then frowning as he saw the empty fridge. "Uhm, did Molly throw you out of the morgue?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly for a moment, then he chuckled. "I haven't really been in touch," he said. "After that time she saw us..." He couldn't quite finish that sentence, his mind suddenly filled with what seemed to be snapshots of every single kiss they had ever shared. Quickly he turned his back to John and busied himself with the kettle.

"Ah." John quietly looked at his knees, keeping himself from watching Sherlock make tea. "Thank you," he said when Sherlock handed him his cup.

"I'll go get changed," Sherlock said. After a moment he realised that he had not moved but rather just stood there looking at John. He pulled himself together and, letting out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding, turned and made his way to the bedroom.

John nodded and focused on the tea. Sherlock couldn't keep living like this, in this horrid flat that was nothing like a home. Even if they could never live together again, John decided that he would help find his friend a better place. He just... deserved better. He sighed, waiting and trying not to think of the fact that Sherlock was changing and thus at least partially naked for a moment. That was behind them. Unfortunately... but still. Nothing to do about that.

 

Sherlock chose a dark turtleneck, rather than his usual shirts. He glanced in the mirror and frowned. He looked a mess. No wonder John was reluctant to look at him. He tried to smooth down his hair, but it just wouldn't be tamed. With a sigh he gave up and went back to the sitting room.

John couldn't help but stare when Sherlock came in. Those pale cheekbones were standing out even more in the turtleneck, and he had to swallow a few times before his dry mouth allowed him to speak. "What's your plan?"

Sherlock picked up his coat. "Harris is looking for me, so I thought we'd make it easy for him. You'll keep out of sight and be ready to assist, should it be necessary." He really hated using John this way, but he was the only one he'd trust for something like this.

"Okay." John emptied his cup, got up and put it in the sink. Only when he put the cup down, did he realise that perhaps he shouldn't have done that, acting like he was living with Sherlock and taking care of his washing-up. He hadn't taken off his jacket because it was unpleasantly chilly in the flat, so within a minute they were out again.

"Stay back as far as you can, without actually losing sight of me," Sherlock said, glancing up and down the street. Then he allowed himself one direct look at John before turning and striding off.

John nodded, but Sherlock was already looking away again. He waited, pretending to check his phone, and chewed his lips. So here they were again, in a way, looking for danger. Still, even in this, Sherlock had put more distance between them than was usual. What if he found it all rather annoying, having to work with John again, and didn't want to talk at all? Though in the cab, he  _had_  said that it was an option... John didn't know what to think of it. For now he should focus, and he saw that Sherlock was far enough away to start walking slowly.


	48. Chapter 48

Sherlock picked a route that took him by the most obvious places where Harris would look for him, choosing dark and deserted streets when possible. He could almost feel John's presence behind him and he desperately wanted to turn and look at him. But he couldn't. Not only could Harris be watching, but John would probably take it as a sign that he did not trust him to do his job properly. Considering all the hateful things Sherlock had said that morning back at Baker Street... He tried to push the memory away, but it had latched onto his mind.

John was watching Sherlock's back and the way his coat was flapping around him, until he realised that he wasn't paying attention to their surroundings and started watching the crossings with small alleyways and the shadows of buildings. After all, this was about Sherlock's safety, even though they couldn't be sure Harris would even show. Wouldn't he know that Sherlock was being protected and therefore leave him be?

They walked on, and John's feet began hurting a little. All day he had had to rush through hospital corridors to see patients, and an extended evening walk while he was tense and on guard didn't help matters. He was just considering calling Sherlock, to ask if there was nothing else they could do besides walking what seemed to be useless circles, when something heavy hit his side from behind and knocked him onto the pavement.

Sherlock sighed. This was pointless, he thought. Harris was obviously either too stupid or too smart to turn up tonight. He cringed at the thought of having to admit to John that he had dragged him around for hours for nothing. But he couldn’t let fear of confrontation hold him back. The right thing to do would be to apologise to John and let him go home. He turned around. John was nowhere in sight.

Somehow, John registered the man's horrible smell before feeling the pain of his first punch. He groaned and lashed out to his side with his elbow, unfortunately hitting Harris' cheek instead of breaking his nose. Still, it must have hurt enough to make him angry, and Harris grabbed John's hair, knocking him to the ground, hard enough to make John's teeth clatter. For a moment, John was dazed and Harris pushed him on his back for another punch. Then John remembered what the man had done to Sherlock and forcefully brought his knees up, causing Harris to huff as his breath was taken away. John almost had him down, but the other man was heavier and struggled until he was back on top of him. John quickly moved to avoid Harris' hands, but they were already closing around his throat.

Sherlock scanned the street. Had John just given up on the whole thing and left? No, surely he wouldn't do that. Not without letting Sherlock know. But where could he be? Had he just fallen behind? Sherlock turned and started backtracking. If Harris was watching, the whole thing was probably blown now, but that couldn't be helped. John was more important.

He turned a corner and saw movement on the ground a little down the alley. It took him only a second to realise what was going on. Before he could even think, Sherlock was running towards them. He grabbed Harris by the shoulders, tore him away from John and threw him to the side. The moment the man was out of his line of sight, all he could think about was John. He knelt beside him, one hand on his chest and the other on his cheek. "John!" he cried. "John, are you okay?"

"Yes, yes," John panted, covering Sherlock’s hand on his chest with his own for support and getting up on his knees, closer to Sherlock.

Harris scrambled back up on his feet, but as soon as he saw John's hand fly to his pocket to bring out his gun, he changed his mind and instead of attacking again, he turned and ran. 

John pushed Sherlock's shoulder in an urgent but gentle movement. "He's getting away."

For a second Sherlock had no idea who John was talking about, then he whirled around and set off after Harris, down the alley.

John followed, adrenalin rushing through him as he ran. God, this was their old life back. Even though he had known that he had missed it a lot, he had not fully realised how much, until now.

The chase took them down another alley, across a street where the traffic was mercifully scarce at this time of the night, and then down a steep flight of stairs into a small park.

While they were running, John put his phone to his ear. "Lestrade? We've got him, but he's running from us. We're at-"

"I know," Lestrade interrupted. "I'm not too far away, Mycroft has seen you. Don't let Harris out of your sight."

As Sherlock sprinted down the path, he looked over his shoulder at John. He couldn't help but smile. God, he had missed this.

But when he looked ahead, he realised that Harris had vanished. He cursed and stopped. Then he heard a sound, off to the left and set off again.

"Stop!" John shouted as soon as the man was back in sight. He took out his gun again and clicked off the safety. "I'm warning you!"

Harris decreased his speed, and John fired a shot up in the air. "Harris!" The man stopped, and John kept the gun steadily on him. "Turn around slowly, and stay where you are or I'll shoot."

Sherlock glanced at John. His heart leapt at the sight. It was so rarely that the soldier in John stood out so clearly, but it was truly a magnificent sight. He tore his eyes away and hurried over to Harris, taking hold of the man. Then he heard someone approach at a run and turned to look.

"Yes, thank you, we'll take it from here." Lestrade came running towards them, followed by Donovan and a man John didn't know.

Harris gritted his teeth and struggled, but with Sherlock's help, the handcuffs eventually did their job and the man could be guided to the police car.

"Are you alright, John? You'd better have that looked at," Greg said, motioning at the bruises on the doctor's face.

John had hardly paid any attention to the wounds. Now Lestrade had mentioned them, he noticed that his right cheek was stinging, but he felt more alive than ever. "Yeah, I'm fine, it's nothing I can't handle."

Sherlock watched them go and then turned to John. He was about to ask if he was sure he was alright, but then he looked into John's eyes. They had that all too familiar gleam. The look they had exchanged countless times, laughing, their hearts racing, after a chase or fight. Without realising it, Sherlock took a step towards John.

John looked up at him. "This... this was good. And he won't get out of jail any time soon now," he said breathlessly. God, Sherlock was close. He should probably take a step backwards, but he couldn't quite bring himself to it.

Sherlock nodded. He reached up his hand and touched the bruise on John's cheek gently. The question was so clear in his mind, so simple. 'Are you okay?' He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

Unconsciously, John stretched his back so his lips came closer to Sherlock's. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock didn't quite know what happened. Suddenly his lips were pressed against John's and he was pushing him back, until he was pinned against an old, wide oak tree.

John hungrily kissed him back, his fingers tangling in the dark curls to pull him closer, closer. A voice in the back of his head vaguely said ' _what?_ ', but it didn't get past the short-circuit in his brain that had occurred as soon as Sherlock's lips touched his. He opened his mouth, groaning as one of Sherlock's legs pressed between his own.

Instinct had taken Sherlock over completely. With one hand behind John's head, he held him into the kiss. The other fumbled desperately with the button on John's trousers. John pushed up against Sherlock's hand, gasping for breath before he locked their mouths together again. As soon as he had the button undone, Sherlock worked his hand down. As he wrapped his fingers around John's cock, he let out a whimpering sound. Frantically he began stroking.

John moaned into Sherlock's mouth and lowered his hands to open the coat and Sherlock's trousers as well, urgently needing to feel him. His hips bucked uncontrollably as Sherlock worked him, and he had to pull back from the kiss for breath, before settling on sucking on the other man's neck while he slipped his hand inside his pants.

Sherlock gasped. Feeling John was amazing, but he needed more. He needed everything. He pulled John's trousers and pants down below his hips. Then he brought his hand up to his mouth and sucked on two of his fingers before reaching down to work him open, fighting his urge to just rush ahead.

"Hm, Sh-Sherlock..." John's forehead fell against Sherlock's collar bone, giving him more of Sherlock's scent mingled with cigarette smell. "Fuck..." He slowed down his pace on Sherlock's cock, giving him a chance to last long enough. The whole world had faded away and he had completely forgotten that they were out in the open, despite the cold - all he wanted was Sherlock, closer, more.

Sherlock soon had two fingers in and scissored them, torn between the primal need to have John _now_ and the instinct to protect him and never ever hurt him.

But then John let out a little moan and it was like Sherlock just snapped. He pulled John’s trousers down a little more and then took hold of his thighs, lifting him up, trapping his body between his own chest and the tree.

John whimpered and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, sighing as the other man's cock finally breached him. It hurt a little, but he needed him so badly that there was no way of putting him off. Once he had accommodated, he rolled his hips to signal that he was ready, moaning as his own cock rubbed against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock groaned and buried his face in John's shoulder as he began moving. His whole world had narrowed down to John. The scent, the sound and the feeling of him.

"Oh, god." John's hand tightened around the coat collar as he moved with Sherlock. "Fuck, I missed you."

"I missed you too," Sherlock muttered into John's jacket. "I missed you so much, I thought I'd go insane."

John started moving faster and shifted his weight onto one arm so he could stroke his cock, while moaning and kissing Sherlock's face.

Sherlock sought out John's lips and caught them in a deep hungry kiss. He gasped against his lips. "Close."

"Me too," John whispered. "Harder, Sherlock, please."

Sherlock dug his fingers into John's thighs and thrust up into him as hard as he could. "John..." he moaned.

John cried out and came all over his hand and Sherlock's shirt, clinging to the other man and burying his face in his neck.

"Fuck..." With a groan and a final vicious thrust, Sherlock came, almost crushing John against the tree with the need to be as close as possible.

John moaned as he felt Sherlock spill inside him, and just held him, panting as pleasure still rushed through him.

Sherlock held John for what felt like an eternity. Then reality began slowly seeping back in. What had he done? John was no longer his. He had no right to just take him like this. As gently as he could, he eased out and lowered John. The moment his feet touched the ground, Sherlock let go and stepped back, unable to meet his eyes.

John cleared his throat and quickly pulled up his trousers. Oh god, this was more than a bit not good. They shouldn't have done this, at least not without talking about things first, and yet there was no way to tell who had started it; he couldn't blame just himself or Sherlock. He steadied himself against the oak to catch his breath. Now what? He was just wondering if he should say something, when footsteps approached.


	49. Chapter 49

"Ah, good, you're still here. John, we need your..." Lestrade's voice faded away as his gaze went from John, who was looking dishevelled and was recovering his breath, to Sherlock, whose clothes were a mess.

Sherlock pulled his coat closed and turned away, blushing.

"What happened?" Lestrade frowned.

"You don't want to know," John said quickly. "What did you say you need?"

"Er, your gun. Because we heard a shot - well." Clearly it was true that Lestrade didn't want to know, because he was also blushing and obviously wanted to get away from them as soon as he could.

John picked his gun up from the ground, where it had fallen unnoticed at some point, and handed it to Lestrade. "There you go. Do we have to give statements or anything?"

"No, no, you can go."

John wasn't so sure if he was glad they weren't needed. If Lestrade left them, the only option was talking to Sherlock, and what would he say?

Sherlock grunted a "Bye" and hurried off. He silently cursed himself. He was running away again. But he just couldn't face John. It was all he could do not to just bolt.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wait." John ran after him and took his arm. "We really need to talk. Maybe- maybe not now, but you can't go back to that horrid flat."

Sherlock looked at John, and very nearly kissed him again. He sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered, looking away. "I shouldn't have..."

"No, it's not your fault. Just... Just come home, okay? We'll each sleep in our own bedrooms and all that, but please."

Sherlock hesitated, torn between the wish to respect John by keeping his distance and the need to be close to him, and maybe even for one night feel a sense of 'home'.

He nodded. "Okay."

"Thank you," John said, doing all he could not to take Sherlock's hand. "We'll- we'll find a cab, right? Is there something you need to pick up from that flat?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I still have some of my old clothes and things back at Baker Street. It will do fine for tonight." He hesitated. "Unless you've packed my things away of course..."

"Uhm, no. I haven't really been in our- your room. Everything's still there."

Sherlock frowned. Had John resented him that much? Couldn't he even bear to go into the room they had shared? To touch Sherlock's things? But no. John wasn't like that. It must be something else.

"Thank you," he said, and looked straight at John. He tried a small smile.

John shrugged. They had to move, or he was going to hug Sherlock and who knew what would come from that. He started walking out of the park, hoping a cab would pass them soon.

Sherlock followed, trying not to look too much at John. His stomach was beginning to feel cold and sticky, but for some reason it didn't really bother him. Even if it had been a horrible mistake, it had also been mindblowingly wonderful, and he would always treasure it. It felt good to have gotten one last chance to be with John. That the last thing they shared would not be that horrible fight but rather this... This, whatever it had been. He didn't even realise that a grin was spreading across his face as the events replayed themselves in his mind.

The cab ride home passed mostly in silence. John was absorbed in his thoughts, even though it didn't bring him closer to knowing what to do. He had wanted tonight to end like this, with Sherlock coming back to the flat as his friend - but well, this wasn't exactly friendly, was it?  _Friends_ didn't shag each other up against a tree. But oh, it had been good. Amazing. He couldn't quite remember if he had said that out loud.

Still, he couldn't know where they stood now. Sherlock had agreed to accompany him, but perhaps that was only for one night, and he couldn't bear the thought.

Sherlock searched around for something to say. Something causal. Something that wasn't: 'I love you so much and I can't live without you and I want you to take me right here and now.' But nothing occurred to him, so he just pretended to look out the window, studying John's reflection in the glass.

...

"Do you want tea?" John asked as soon as they were up in the flat.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, thank you," he said, glancing around. It felt like he'd been here only yesterday and at the same time, it seemed a lifetime since they had been together.

While John was waiting for the kettle, a thought struck him. "I'll give you some clean sheets," he said. "Probably the ones on your bed aren't that fresh, after all this time. Feel free to take a shower." God, it felt so strange to say that to Sherlock; he bloody lived here!

"No," Sherlock took a step forward. "I'll change the sheets." He felt awful putting John to so much trouble after what he had done to him. Well, okay, _with_ him. John had certainly not minded at the time. But although it had been amazing, it hadn't been _right_. They shouldn't do things like that. They couldn't. Or how could they ever move on? Because that was what they were doing. Wasn't it?

"Okay," John nodded. Normally he would have asked if Sherlock was actually capable of doing that, as a joke, but he just didn't feel ready to joke with him now. Things felt unnaturally awkward between them again, and all he wanted, was to go to his own bed, where he would have the time to think things over, and more importantly, to think of a way to solve this.

Sherlock stood a moment longer watching John. Then he pulled himself together and went to the room that had once been his. And for a few glorious months, his and John's. He looked at the bed. Their bed. And then it all came flooding back. He gasped and sank to his knees, completely overwhelmed.

John busied himself with the tea a little longer. After a moment, it dawned on him that perhaps Sherlock wasn't planning to come back to share a cup. Perhaps he should take his own up to his bedroom - or was that too much like running away? Only then, he realized that there hadn't been a sound in thei- Sherlock's bedroom either. A little worried, he knocked on the door. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

Sherlock had slumped forward, his head resting on the bed. His mind must be playing tricks on him, because he was convinced he could still detect John's scent there. Time seemed to stand still. When he heard John's voice, he jerked back. Still sitting on the floor, he called out. "Yes, everything's fine." He tried to sound calm, but he couldn't quite control the choked quality that had seeped into his voice.

John frowned, but he decided it was better to believe Sherlock. He probably needed a moment alone as well, and he couldn't trust himself going in there. "I'll be upstairs, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock said and closed his eyes as he heard his voice crack. He laid his head down again. He should not have come here. It only made everything that much worse. How was he supposed to handle this?

John sighed, resting his hand against the door before he went up the stairs.

Sherlock sat there for a very long time, trying to think, to figure out what to do. He considered leaving. But he couldn't face it. He considered crawling into bed and trying to sleep, but the bed _did_ smell like John and he couldn't handle changing the sheets. He thought about going to the sofa and sleeping there, like so often before.

It took surprisingly little time for John to fall asleep. Despite everything he had wanted to think through, being tired and of course the wonderful, though forbidden, shag in the park did wonders to lull him. As soon as he was lying comfortably, he drifted off, with nothing on his mind but Sherlock, almost feeling the other man's warmth in his dreams.

Finally Sherlock got to his feet. He found old pyjamas in the bottom drawer and put them on. He really should take a shower, but he just couldn't be bothered right now. He went into the sitting room and was about to lie down on the sofa when he felt a sudden, desperate urge to just _see_ John. To assure himself that he was really there. In the same building as Sherlock. In what used to be their home.

As quietly as possible, he walked up the stairs and opened John's door, just enough to peer in. There he was, already asleep. Sherlock stood for a long time just watching him. Then he realised that he, without thinking, had stepped into the room and was standing at the foot of the bed. Knowing that it was a very bad idea, he carefully sat on the bed. He just couldn't take his eyes off John. He looked so peaceful. Almost happy. Sherlock remembered all the times he had woken up in John's arms. Every single blissfully lazy morning when they had shared smiles and kisses before starting the day. His body ached at the memory of John next to him.

John snored softly and Sherlock smiled. He knew John's sleep pattern by heart. This was the deepest stage. Nothing, short of the house blowing up, could wake him right now. And then an idea, a foolish, selfish, almost dangerous idea, occurred to him. Carefully he lifted the covers and settled next to John, snuggling against him. He placed his arm around John's chest and buried his nose in his soft hair. He sighed and closed his eyes. Just for a moment, he thought. For a few short minutes he would lie here and remember and then he would leave. Leave the room, leave Baker Street and let John get on with his life. In just a moment.


	50. Chapter 50

"Hmmm." John felt perfectly warm and... cuddled. The sunlight was already falling into his room, but he was lying with his back to the window, so it didn't bother him too much. Good thing he didn't have to work today. Sherlock wouldn't let him go anyway, the way he was clinging to him, spooning him. Wait. Wait, wow. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be there. There wasn't some part of the previous night he had forgotten, was there? God, he hadn't felt so relaxed in weeks.

Carefully, he turned around, even though he didn't actually want to move. "Sherlock?" he said quietly.

Sherlock grunted and then blinked a few times. "What?" he muttered. Then he caught up and was suddenly wide awake. "Oh my god..." he stammered. "I'm so sorry."

John hadn't quite remembered how beautiful Sherlock looked when the softness of sleep still lingered on his face. He put a tentative, warm hand on his cheek. "Don't be. I'm glad you're here," he admitted quietly.

Sherlock blushed and closed his eyes for a moment. "I didn't mean to... I mean, I didn't mean for you to find out. I just wanted to hold you for a moment."

John couldn't suppress a soft smile, but kept himself from pulling Sherlock against his chest. If they were going to talk about this now, it was better not to have the influence from a too-pleasant embrace. "Sherlock... I think we've both been fools. We've had an argument, but that's what couples do. We shouldn't have made it the end of the world."

"But John," Sherlock admitted, still keeping his eyes closed. "Fighting with you _was_ the end of the world. I couldn't handle it anymore. I couldn't face you. The things I said..."

"We've both said terrible things," John sighed. "And I'm really sorry about that. I miss you."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him. "I miss you too."

John bit his lip and shifted a little, not really knowing how to continue. "I... I think that we..." He cleared his throat and made up his mind. "Listen, I want us at least to be friends again. Life without mysteries, without excitement, without _you_ just... just sucks, okay? And if you want to try to save our... our relationship, then you're more than welcome, but it's all fine. It's up to you." He took a deep breath.

Sherlock frowned. "I don't think I could ever be your friend again, John," he muttered.

John's face fell. "Oh."

Sherlock nodded. "I think we saw the proof of that last night. I can't be your friend, because when I'm around you, I will not be able to resist the urge to touch you. To kiss you. To..." he smiled a little sheepishly. "Well... you were there..."

"Yeah. Fortunately." John tried a small smile, but he simply needed to know. "So, what are you saying? Does this mean you can't be around me, that you want to leave?" Somehow he managed not to sound desperate.

"I can't be around you without wanting to be _with_ you," Sherlock said, feeling very exposed, not knowing what John wanted. He just couldn't tell. He had never been able to read John, when it came to things like this.

"Even after everything I've said? Even though I'm a distraction to your work? I mean," he added quickly, "I don't want to blame you for what you said, that's not what I mean. It's just that you had a point there, and... I don't want to obstruct what you are doing. I want to work along with you, not against you."

"John, I can't work without you. I've tried. For weeks I've tried. I solve the cases, but that's it. There's no thrill, no excitement, no satisfaction, when I can't turn around and look at you at the moment when everything falls into place and I see the pride in your eyes. There's no point in it all without you." Sherlock had to force himself to stop. He just wanted to pour out all his thoughts and all the pain of life alone, but if he did, he would probably never be able to stop. So instead he leaned forward and kissed John.

In surprise of the words and the kiss, John's hands went up to cup Sherlock's face, desperately kissing back. Sherlock's whole body trembled with relief, as he finally let himself believe that John wanted this too.

"God, I love you," John sighed when they broke apart for air. Sherlock had ended up half on top of him. "Don't ever leave again." This time he allowed the question, the plea to sound in his words.

"Never," Sherlock said. "If you are sure that you really want me, I'll never leave you again."

"Good," John said, and then his lips were on Sherlock's again, pulling the other man against him as if he would fall apart if they weren't touching with their whole bodies.

For a moment Sherlock returned the kiss hungrily. Then his hands began tugging frantically at John's clothes. "I need you," he muttered. "I need to feel you."

John groaned, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's jaw as he let his hands slide under Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock moved one hand down John's pants and began stroking him slowly. He let out a shaky sigh, overwhelmed with how amazing it was to be so close to John again. To be able to touch him.

John moaned, pulling Sherlock's shirt over his head to throw it away, so he was free to explore once again. While his hands roamed over Sherlock's back, he kissed along his clavicle, thrusting into his hand.

Sherlock began pulling John's pants down with one hand while he continued stroking with the other.

"Wait," John gasped, gently pushing Sherlock's hands away.

"What?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"Make this last." He held Sherlock's gaze, then rolled them over and made short work of their remaining clothing, before smoothing his hands all over Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock smiled and then kissed John. "If you want to," he whispered against his lips.

John nodded, then kissed down his neck.

Sherlock let his hands explore John's body slowly, teasingly avoiding the places he really wanted to touch. John hummed and slowed down his kisses over Sherlock's sternum, stopping when he arrived at his stomach, but only to flick his tongue over one of his nipples.

Sherlock sighed. "How did I ever go so long without touching you?" he muttered.

"No idea," John smiled gently, before continuing to worship Sherlock's body with his mouth.

Sherlock lay back with his eyes closed and hummed with pleasure, enjoying John's touch.

"Tell me what you want. Let me hear your voice again," John said.

"I want you to touch me all over. I want you to use your mouth on me. And then I want to ride you," Sherlock said, his voice instantly finding its familiar low level.

"God, yeah." The words were barely more than a breath. John took Sherlock's right hand and pressed a kiss to his palm, before bending again towards his hip, kissing down to the outside of his thigh.

Sherlock smiled and writhed a little in anticipation. "I want to feel your hands and your lips on my body," he purred. "I want to feel you inside me."

John teasingly kissed his knee, smirking up at him. "Patience, love. After all you wanted me to touch you _everywhere_." He sat back and lifted Sherlock's right foot, pressing a kiss to his ankle and then his calf.

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes," he said softly. " _Everywhere_ ".

John smiled and put Sherlock's leg back down on the mattress, then turned and started licking up the inside of his left leg, until he arrived high up on his thigh, teasingly slow.

Sherlock hummed with pleasure and twitched a little when John passed a ticklish area.

John's tongue wandered further up, reclaiming him. Sherlock was so gorgeous. It was so strange that they hadn't done this in ages, because he still knew every spot of Sherlock's body and the way he would react. Still, there were some unexplored areas. He gently pushed Sherlock's thighs up and ducked between his legs to lick behind his balls.

Sherlock gasped. "John..." he stammered. "Fuck..."

Feeling smug, John continued his path, slowly licking between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock moaned. "Oh god, John... That's... " Though he couldn't find a word to describe just how amazing it felt.

John experimentally went further, revelling in the smell and taste of Sherlock and sex. He gently lapped at his hole until he felt him relax and worked the tip of his tongue in, holding Sherlock's hips to keep him close.

Sherlock moaned and tilted his hips up, needing more of John. Now.

John pulled back and worked a finger in instead, his lips seeking out Sherlock's sack.

"John," Sherlock moaned. "I need you... "

John kissed the side of Sherlock's shaft while working him open, his own cock twitching at the sounds Sherlock was making. "I want you so badly."

Suddenly Sherlock pulled away. He sat up and pushed John down on the bed. "I want you inside me," he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl. "Now." He moved to straddle John.

John whimpered as he was treated to the sight of Sherlock's cock hard against his pale stomach, while he was lowering himself over him. "You're so gorgeous," he said breathlessly.

Sherlock smiled at him. "I love you," he whispered as he sank down, taking John in, in one long fluid motion.

John gasped and fell back, his whole body on fire as his cock was enveloped in Sherlock's warm tightness. " _Fuck_."

Sherlock paused for a moment, as he rediscovered the overwhelming sensation of being so completely filled by John. Then slowly he began to move, keeping his eyes on John's.

John finally remembered to breathe, moaning as Sherlock was watching him so intently. He thrust up, struggling to keep his eyes open and fixed on Sherlock, while pleasure waved through him. "I want to kiss you," he managed to say hoarsely. He wanted the other man closer, to have their skin touching everywhere while he was moving deep inside him.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John deeply, resting against his chest as he kept moving slowly. His hands began to caress John's neck and face, as if trying to take in everything that was John, all at the same time.

"God yes, that's it," John whispered, pulling his legs up so he could thrust even deeper, his arms around Sherlock's back. He kissed him again, passionately exploring his mouth with muffled moans.

Sherlock groaned. "Yes," he muttered. "Just like that.” He kissed John again, but had to pull away as he was growing short of breath. He rested his head on John's shoulder gasping. "Oh god... Don't stop."

"Not planning to," John answered breathlessly, resting his hands lower on Sherlock's back as he sped up his thrusts and made them more forceful. "You feel amazing."

"You are amazing," Sherlock gasped as John continued to hit the spot, hurtling him towards his climax. "I can't..." was all he managed to say, before he came hard, clenching around John as he cried out his name.

"God, Sherlock," John moaned, his whole body shuddering. He thought of rolling them over, but he was too close, and a few more thrusts tipped him over the edge, clinging to Sherlock as he came inside him, his face buried in his shoulder.

As soon as Sherlock had regained his senses he began kissing John urgently, only pausing long enough to draw in quick breaths and whisper: "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... I love you... I'll never leave you again... I love you."

John sloppily answered every kiss, threading his fingers through Sherlock's hair and feeling boneless beneath him. Eventually he cupped Sherlock's face, keeping him away from his lips just long enough to get a word in, smiling. "I love you too, Sherlock. And I'm not letting you go again either." He gently rubbed the nape of Sherlock's neck with his fingertips and pulled him in for another, slower kiss.

Sherlock sighed and surrendered to the kiss, finally truly believing that the nightmare was over, and he was home.

They stayed in the warm bed for some time longer, exchanging kisses and cuddling until John was almost giddy with happiness. "Let's have a shower," he suggested, knowing that Sherlock didn't like feeling sticky for too long.

Sherlock smiled and after a final kiss got to his feet, hauling John after him. "Great idea," he said as he headed for the stairs.

John chuckled. "I hardly have any others."

Sherlock paused and kissed him. "Well, I seem to have had a few good ones lately too."

John smiled. "Climbing in my bed, for one."

"Yes, that was rather brilliant, wasn't it?" He chuckled. "Falling asleep before I could sneak away, that was just dumb luck."


	51. Chapter 51

John took Sherlock's hand and they went down the stairs, into the bathroom.

Sherlock turned on the water and used the time it took for it to run hot, to kiss John some more. John smiled against his lips, opening his mouth to give Sherlock access, and caressing his neck and shoulders. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, holding him as close as possible. For a moment he considered the feasibility of never letting go.

John gently pushed him backwards under the now warm spray, then hugged him even closer while the water was falling over them both.

Sherlock kissed John's cheeks and forehead gently. "This," he muttered, "was one of the things I missed the most. I never knew how dreadfully lonely showering could be."

John smiled up at him and stroked the side of his too-pronounced ribs. "Sleeping alone is even worse, to me. I mean, even if you're not in bed with me, but doing a late-night experiment in the kitchen or anything, it's different. Because then at least I know that you will join me eventually." He kissed his shoulder.

"Sleeping?" Sherlock grinned. "Haven't done much of that. Maybe that was why I succumbed so easily, once I had you in my arms."

John hummed and stroked his lips along Sherlock's collar bone. Sherlock closed his eyes with a pleased sigh. After a while, John pulled out of the hug, but he wasn't able to stop touching Sherlock even for a second. He took the soap and washed the taller man's back, then his hair.

Sherlock chuckled softly. "I even missed you taking care of me," he admitted. "At least a little. But now that I'm fully recovered, things will have to change a little around here."

"I know," John said quietly. "I'm not nagging about you having eaten too little, am I? And I know you're perfectly capable of washing yourself. I just want to touch you, but if it's annoying you, please tell me so."

Sherlock kissed him quickly. "That's not what I meant. But you have to stop letting me take advantage of you, ordering you about and letting you do all the work. You have to tell me 'no'. Not just when I want to do something stupid or dangerous, but also when I'm being lazy or manipulating you for my own convenience."

John nodded, giving him another kiss and taking his hands. "I love you, Sherlock. I _want_ to help you. There isn't much that gives me more pleasure than being of use to you and your work. But I'll tell you if you ever go too far. And it's still so that if you are about to do something dangerous, you have to take me with you so I can join in the fun - and protect you." He smiled.

Sherlock laughed. "I'll do my best. But then you must promise not to be so deliciously distracting." He kissed him.

"I'm not doing that on purpose, you just can't keep your hands off me," John grinned.

"That's what I mean." Sherlock flashed him a teasing grin. "Stop looking so damn shaggable."

John chuckled. "You're one to speak. And I'm not even very shaggable at the moment. Next time you want to take me in a park, bring lube." His eyes twinkled at the memory.

Sherlock frowned. "Oh yeah," he said. "Sorry about that. I can't believe I did that to you."

"Oy, don't you dare to feel guilty. It was fantastic."

Sherlock grinned. "It was, wasn't it? But I'm not sure I can ever look Lestrade in the eyes again."

John giggled and kissed his neck. "I'm so happy to have you back," he said with a fond look.

"I'm happy to be back," Sherlock said, gently stroking John's shoulders and back.

John pulled him down for a kiss, then rested his forehead against Sherlock's. "Breakfast?"

Sherlock nodded. "Sure," he said.

"Good. Feel free to wash my back first," John grinned, handing him the soap.

Sherlock smiled. "Turn around."

John complied, but leaned back against Sherlock and turned his head to steal another kiss. "Actually, feel free to do whatever you want with me."

Sherlock kissed him on the lips and then moved on to his cheek, his jaw and down his neck. "There's a lot of things I want to do with you, but as you said, you may need a little time for most of them after last night..." He wrapped his arms around John and let one hand slide slowly down his stomach.

"Hmmm, I'm sure you can think of some more creative ways," John mumbled, sighing happily at the touch.

"I'm sure I can," Sherlock said. He moved his hand to John's back. "In fact, you've given me some ideas." Gently, he pushed John forward, before kneeling behind him. "Let me know if you're too sore for this," he said, before leaning in to slide his tongue gently over John's hole.

John gave a low moan. "'s fine," he blew out.

Encouraged, Sherlock leaned in closer, drawing small circles with his tongue, using his hands to spread John's cheeks, allowing him better access.

John gasped, not knowing how to position himself so his knees wouldn’t give out on him. He pressed a hand against the wall in front of him. "Fuck, Sherlock..."

Sherlock pulled back long enough to chuckle and ask: "That good?", before continuing. As he felt John relaxing, he slowly worked the tip of his tongue inside.

"Amazing," John breathed. No-one had ever done this to him; he had only known that he wanted to do it to Sherlock earlier, without knowing how good it actually felt. He cursed again, pressing back against him.

Sherlock pushed his tongue in further and then began moving it in and out slowly. He reached a hand between John's legs and found his cock. He couldn't really stroke him from this position, but he needed to touch him.

"Sherlock." John kept breathing his name, moaning at his ministrations while all he could do was hold himself up against the wall.

Sherlock continued until he felt John's legs trembling. Then he pulled back. With his hands on John's hips he turned him around, and then pushed him back against the wall, following to take his cock in his mouth.

John's left hand scrambled into Sherlock's hair, just to have something to hold onto, rather than to push him. He was panting heavily, ridiculously close to coming considering the fact that he had just asked Sherlock to wash his back.

Sherlock sucked hard as he moved his head. He had no time for finesse, he just wanted to taste John and feel him come. He needed it.

Soon, with his knees almost buckling and his head thrown back, John was coming down Sherlock's throat, moaning loudly and tugging Sherlock's hair harder than he realised. "Oh, Sherlock..."

Sherlock swallowed and then pulled back, smiling up at John. "Still want me to wash your back?" he asked teasingly.

John was leaning against the wall, panting. "Always. But let me take care of you first?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I can wait." He got to his feet and turned John around, beginning to slide the soap over his skin. He leaned in and kissed his shoulder gently.

John hummed, resting his head on his arms against the wall. Sherlock's hands simply felt too good to protest, even if he had wanted to. "I love you," he mumbled.

"I love you too," Sherlock purred, kissing his way across his back to his other shoulder. He put away the soap and used his hands to ease the muscles in John's back.

John sighed, leaning back and feeling relaxed. "Tell me what you'd like me to do with you in a minute."

"I want you to hug me, and kiss me and tell me you'll never let me go," Sherlock answered, kissing his way up John's neck. "And then I want you to go and make us breakfast and I promise I will eat some."

John slowly turned around and stepped closer to him, smiling. "And don't you want me to return the favour?" he asked, waving his hand in the direction of Sherlock's groin.

"It can wait," Sherlock said and kissed him. "We'll have plenty of time later. Right now, I just want to enjoy your company."

John wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into another gentle kiss. "I love you and I'm really not letting you go again. I want you to be mine and I promise that I'm all yours."

For a moment Sherlock wondered at the strange tightening of his throat and stinging sensation at the corners of his eyes. Then he smiled and returned the kiss eagerly.

John grinned and stroked his cheek.

...

Wrapped in a dressing robe, John cooked them breakfast. Sherlock had had to borrow one of his robes, which was of course too short and resulted in a rather distracting sight, but still John didn't burn anything and they ate with their feet entangled, enjoying each other's company.

Sherlock was terribly distracted, and as a result, he ate quite a lot more than he had intended. Suddenly he realised his plate was empty. He looked at it with a bemused chuckle.

John smirked. "Glad to see you have an appetite."

"So am I," Sherlock said, smiling at him.

John leaned towards him for a kiss. "Even the weather seems happy that you're back. We should go out."

Sherlock was feeling so content, he would have agreed to anything John suggested. "Sounds lovely," he said, kissing John back.

John got a little carried away in the kiss, before he remembered to pull back. "Let's get dressed, then."

Sherlock nodded and got to his feet. After one more quick kiss, he went to his room to see what he could find to wear. He really ought to see about getting the rest of his things home. He stopped in mid-movement. Less than twelve hours ago, he had been determined to sneak out once again. But now, this was unquestionably his home. Their home.

John returned downstairs from what wasn't his room anymore, dressed in jeans and a soft, warm jumper. "Did you find something?" he asked, walking into their bedroom.

Sherlock grinned and turned to John. The suit had once been nice and still fit well, but it was pretty old, and a little frayed at the edges. "I'm afraid it's the best I can do at the moment," he said.

John giggled. Sherlock always looked so impeccable, but this suit made him look a little more rough. "Perhaps we should walk to that flat and get your stuff."

"Another time," Sherlock said with a laugh. "I don't plan on keeping this on longer than I have to." He thought for a moment. "I'll go get my stuff next time you're at work. We can share the cab home."

"Good," John smiled. "Tomorrow, then." He reached out to take Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock nodded. "Besides," he said. "This won't be so bad, once I've got my coat on."

John smirked. "You and your coat. Come on."

"I thought you liked me in my coat," Sherlock said teasingly, taking John's hand.

"I always like you," John grinned.

"With or without the coat," Sherlock grinned too.

"Even naked," John chuckled.

Sherlock smirked. "Okay," he said, and moved to get undressed. "But it'll be a little cold outside."

"Oh, you," John laughed, pulling Sherlock's hands away from his shirt buttons. "I only want you naked _after_ that walk," he clarified, pressing a kiss on the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "Probably for the rest of the day."

"Deal," Sherlock grinned. He took John's hand again and hauled him towards the door. "Let's get out, so we can come back."

Laughing, John followed, pressing a kiss on Sherlock's cheek before he opened the door to get out.


	52. Chapter 52

It was a surprisingly warm and sunny day. Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's shoulders as he sighed contentedly and steered him towards the park.

John smirked. "I wonder if I can ever look at a tree again and not think of last night."

Sherlock blushed and frowned. "Please don't remind me," he said. "I still feel kind of bad about just... taking you, like that."

"If I hadn't wanted it, I would have pushed you away and punched you in the face," John said earnestly. "I needed you just as badly."

Sherlock couldn't help grinning. He gave John's shoulder a little squeeze. "It was very embarrassing," he said. "But also kind of hot in a we-really-shouldn't-be-doing-this kind of way."

"Very hot," John smirked. "Now stop talking about it before I'm pinning _you_ against a tree."

Sherlock thought about this for a moment. "You know," he said. "There was a moment there, when I slid my hand down your pants..."

"Sherlock!" John said, laughing and pulling him down for a kiss.

"You were so hard against my hand," he purred. "That's when I realised I just had to have you."

John swallowed and stared at him. "Let's go home."

Sherlock feigned innocent confusion. "But we were walking...?"

"Yes, and so are other people, by daylight. I guess Lestrade wouldn't appreciate having to get us out of the mess if I jumped you here and now. Besides, that would cost us precious time, so _move_."

Sherlock laughed. "Yes," he said. "That would probably be asking too much of him. But Mycroft kind of owes us a favour, don't you think?" He took John's hand and began retracing their steps back to Baker Street.

"He does, but still we'd better go home," John said, smiling. "It's more comfortable there anyway."

"Indeed," Sherlock agreed, speeding up a little.

God, Sherlock really had him thinking too much about the night before. John had already fished his key from his pocket a street before Baker Street and hurriedly unlocked the door as soon as they were there.

Sherlock found that he couldn't stop himself touching John teasingly, as he followed him up the stairs. Not that he wanted to stop. He found that John's urgency still had a very profound effect on him, and the more worked up he could get him, the better.

"Bedroom," John ordered, even though he was already pulling Sherlock along and didn't leave him much of a choice. Once they were standing in front of the bed, he pulled him into a hungry kiss.

Sherlock returned the kiss with equal passion, while shrugging off his coat, letting it fall to the floor. Then he hurriedly pulled off John's jacket.

As soon as John's arms were free again, he started fumbling with Sherlock's trousers, and once he had them open, he slipped his hand in. "Ah, now I see what you meant," he breathed, curling his fingers around Sherlock's length.

Sherlock gasped, and pushed forward into John's hand as he struggled to get John's jeans open and down, without breaking the kiss.

John stroked and kissed him, knowing he wasn't very helpful in getting undressed, but somehow he felt like Sherlock had deserved a little teasing. Sherlock was almost turning frantic, when he finally got the jeans out of the way and could get his hand into John's pants.

John moaned and pulled back from the kiss. "Bed," he panted, pulling Sherlock's trousers and pants down and then pushing him backwards onto the mattress. Sherlock gasped and looked eagerly up at John, only too happy to let him take charge. John quickly stepped out of his own pants and sat down in Sherlock's lap, pressing their cocks together. "Fuck," he hissed, before catching Sherlock's mouth again while he rubbed against him.

Sherlock rolled his hips beneath John, moaning into the kiss. John tightened his hand around them, groaning as he rocked against Sherlock.

"Fuck, that feels good," Sherlock muttered, grabbing John's arse with both hands, pulling him even closer.

"Not going to last long like this. I'll save fucking you for the second round," John growled in his ear.

"Deal," Sherlock gasped rolling his hips one more time. Then he couldn't hold back any longer. "Oh god, John," he groaned, clinging to him.

John moaned as he felt Sherlock's come cover him and with a few more quick thrusts in his hand he was following, kissing Sherlock's neck to keep his moans down.

Sherlock lay panting beneath John, holding him close. "I love you," he muttered, as he felt John's body relaxing.

"You too," John sighed contentedly, lifting his head to softly kiss Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock returned the kiss, smiling against John's lips. "So," he said, his voice very smug. "I take it there's to be a round two at some point?"

John hummed, wiping a curl from Sherlock's forehead. "If you want, whenever you're ready... But I want your shirt off, first."

Sherlock smiled up at him. "Get off me for a moment, and I'll see to that," he said.

John gave him another quick kiss, before rolling off him and pulling his jumper over his head, then plucking off his socks. Sherlock sat up, quickly removed his shirt and used it to wipe himself clean, before tossing it into a corner of the room. "I'm going to run out of clean shirts soon at this rate," he mused.

John chuckled. "Just stay naked, then."

"Okay," Sherlock grinned. "But then you have to go pick up my things tomorrow."

"Fine. That way I can make sure you've got literally everything here and not one single reason to go back there, and I'll be certain you'll be waiting for me naked," John smirked.

Sherlock smiled and stretched on the bed. "It works for me."

John draped himself half over him again, trailing his fingertips down over his chest and stomach.

Sherlock smiled at him. "Are you actually ready for round two so soon? You must really have missed me."

John kissed his neck. "I did... Though I am intending to give myself a little more time by preparing you thoroughly."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "By all means..." he said.

"Indeed," John grinned, before he kissed him deeply.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him tight, their bodies pressed together as they kissed. Of all the things he'd missed, kissing John was definitely at the top of the list. John took his time, licking and nipping while his hands stroked Sherlock's face and neck. Sherlock hummed happily, his hands exploring John's back, refamiliarising himself with the wonder that was John's skin. Well... A wonder to him anyway, he thought and chuckled.

"Glad to see that I'm amusing you," John smiled softly.

"I was just thinking how truly amazing you are. It made me very happy."

John chuckled. "Good. At least that means you aren't bored.” He went back to kissing Sherlock, teasingly stroking his hip.

Sherlock smiled and moved his hands down to the lower parts of John's back.

John smirked and gave a long stroke over Sherlock's hardening cock, before sitting up and taking the lube from the bedside drawer.

Sherlock watched him. "You know," he said, pensively. "Once you're fully recovered from... the tree-incident, there's one position that I haven't had you in, that I really want to try."

"Tell me?" John said, pressing lube on his fingers while letting his gaze wander appreciatively over Sherlock's body. He licked his lips.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'll wait until I can show you."

John tutted. "Always making me curious... Believe me, I'll keep you to it." He pressed one finger between the cheeks of Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock groaned. "Believe me," he said, his voice a little choked. "I won't go back on this one. It's what I wanted from the start, only circumstances were never right."

John kissed his hip and pressed deeper. "Later," he promised. "Now relax, love."

Sherlock smiled and did as he was told, closing his eyes and enjoying John's touch.

John smiled as he saw Sherlock so relaxed and trusting, and sprayed small kisses on his lower stomach while he added a second finger.

Sherlock moaned softly and pushed down on John's fingers.

"I did miss you terribly, you know," John said quietly, nuzzling the hairs above Sherlock's cock while he moved his fingers. "You're so beautiful..."

"Yes," Sherlock purred in his deep voice. "Your beautiful body to play with."

"And to love," John added, before giving a slow lick over the length of Sherlock's cock.

The resulting moan somewhat ruined the teasing quality of Sherlock's voice as he asked: "You only love me for my body?"

"Don't be ridiculous," John smiled, before wrapping his lips around the head.

Sherlock was about to make another comment, but it was lost in the deep sigh of pleasure that escaped him.

John smirked, but pulled out his fingers before he could get too enthusiastic and have Sherlock coming before he had the chance to have him.

Sherlock moaned a complaint and looked down at John.

"Don't worry, you'll get more," John grinned, moving up his body to kiss him passionately.

Sherlock returned the kiss hungrily, pushing his hips up against John's.

John hummed into his mouth, his hand scrambling next to him to find the bottle of lube again. Pulling back, he handed it to Sherlock. "Put it on me," he whispered, his eyes shining with anticipation.

Sherlock sat up and hurriedly squirted some lube out into the palm of his hand. Then he began stroking John softly.

John moaned, bending down for another kiss until he had had enough. "I want you," he panted against Sherlock's mouth.

"Then take me," Sherlock answered.

John's eyes darkened even more and he licked his lips, almost predatory. After repositioning, he slowly pressed his cock all the way in, sighing. "God, you're so amazing..."

" _You're_ amazing," Sherlock groaned, before catching John's lip between his own, sucking on it.

John moaned and pulled back almost completely, before sinking back in. "Fuck, yes... Sherlock..."

"John..." Sherlock muttered. "Oh god, John... I love you so much..."

John repeated his movement, licking into Sherlock's mouth. "I want your arms around me," he breathed when he broke the kiss for air. "I want to be as close to you as possible."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's back and hooked his legs behind his, holding him as close as he could while still letting him move. He began rolling his hips, rising up to meet John as he pushed in.

John moaned, his thrusts now taking a better angle. "Perfect..."

Sherlock groaned in agreement, continuing to meet John's thrusts.

"I love you," John groaned, not able to restrain himself enough to keep up the slow rhythm.

Sherlock gasped and matched John's movements. "You too," he panted. "Keep doing... that..." He closed his eyes, surrendering completely.

John was planning exactly that - not that there really were any plans on his mind, only pleasure and Sherlock. "Close," he gasped a little later, pressing his lips on Sherlock's again.

Sherlock nodded. "Touch me," he muttered, letting his arms fall away from John's back.

"God, yes," John moaned, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's cock to stroke him firmly.

Sherlock groaned and tilted his hips taking John even deeper. After a few strokes he cried out his name and came, clinging to his shoulders.

John followed almost immediately with an animalistic sound, holding Sherlock close.

Sherlock took John's face between his hands and pressed soft kisses to his cheeks and forehead, still panting. "I love you so much," he whispered.

"I love you too, Sherlock. You are everything," John answered, stroking the other man's face and pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Everything..."

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John again, holding him tight. "How did I ever deserve this?" he muttered to himself.

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck. "I could ask the same question. You are a genius, brilliant and beautiful and thrilling and amazing. I'm just... normal. I'm the lucky one here."

"I'm arrogant, and socially tone deaf, I'm manipulative and lazy, and act like a child when I get bored or ill. You on the other hand are kind, loving, gentle, wise and such an amazing lover that it defies logic."

John smiled up at him. "It's not like I'm always that pleasant, and you've seen that too. You can't call yourself lazy while you are so passionate about your work. I am honoured to be the object of your passion as well. And everyone acts like a child when they're bored or ill. You just do so a little more," he grinned, fully expecting a tickling attack from Sherlock.

Sherlock was tempted, but restrained himself. Instead, he kissed John. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_ ," John said earnestly, returning the kiss.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "This really is almost too good to be true, isn't it?" he mused.

"No, it isn't. It's true, and neither of us is going to leave, and I love you," John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's cheekbone.

"I love you too," Sherlock said, smiling.

"So, what have you been doing all this time? Any exciting cases I should know about?" John asked, admiring Sherlock's face.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not really. The only really interesting work was helping Gryffydd write the history of the books. Even within the restraints Mycroft had placed on us."

"Right, I had heard you went to Cardiff. How was Ian?" John wondered how the young man had reacted to having Sherlock in his own house. Perhaps he had left, not wanting to be confronted with his feelings?

Sherlock hesitated. "He was... fine."

"Did he talk to you about... you know, his feelings?"

"Not directly." Sherlock thought for a moment. He didn't want to keep things from John ever again. He cleared his throat. "John..." he began. "There's something I have to tell you."

John frowned. "That sounds... ominous."

Sherlock sighed. "Something happened in Cardiff." He saw the change in John's eyes and hurried to add: "Nothing bad. Just... stupid..."

"What happened?" John asked softly.

Sherlock closed his eyes. It might be cowardly, but it made it easier. "I let Ian kiss me."

"Ah. Well, we weren't together, so you were free to kiss everyone you liked," John said, although his eyes shifted to a point on the pillow, next to Sherlock's head. "I'm glad you tried to get over us. I know I couldn't."

Sherlock sighed. "I was an idiot," he muttered. "And not in a good way. I didn't really like him at all. I just thought it would be easier. Less complicated. But it was completely empty. I found out I want complicated... because... well, because complicated means you." He bit his lip, not sure he made any sense.

John turned his gaze back to Sherlock with a small smile. "Well. As long as you're not going to repeat that experiment to get conclusive results..."

"Actually," Sherlock said, smiling back, "there is a much more efficient counter-experiment, that should put all doubts to rest." He kissed John, a little hesitantly.

John quickly took over to control the kiss, making it intimate and hungry, to be certain that he had completely reclaimed Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock surrendered quickly and let John have his way with him. When he finally got a chance to breathe, he gasped: "Definitely want you, yes..."

John smirked and kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers, at this point we feel it would be unfair not to warn you: there is only one chapter left, before our story is finished. Along with it, we will be publishing a commentary about how it came to be and tying up some of the loose ends. But do not despair. We already have something new for you. See you on the other side.


	53. Chapter 53

They spent the rest of the day mostly cuddling and kissing, at some point exchanging the sofa for the bed. After a nice dinner and some crap telly for Sherlock to comment on, they went to bed early - which didn't mean that they slept early, since there were other things to be done first. Snuggled against each other, they eventually fell asleep, warm and together and exactly where they belonged.

John groaned as his alarm started beeping. Fuck, it was still dark outdoors. Why had it been a good idea to find a job again? Sherlock made a complaining sound against his chest and John stroked his hair soothingly. Reluctantly trying to free himself out of Sherlock's warm hold, he turned to the night stand where the hellish noise came from, to make it shut the fuck up.

Sherlock grunted a complaint. "Don't go..." he muttered sleepily.

John finally managed to restore silence, then leaned back to Sherlock, who was still holding him. "I wish I could stay," he mumbled, kissing his forehead.

"Are you sure I shouldn't go get my stuff from the flat myself?" Sherlock mumbled, before burying his face in the pillow. "We could meet when you get off from work."

John shrugged. "I don't mind much. And I like the idea of having you naked when I get home," he added, as he was reminded of a less sleepy thought. Still, it was far too tempting to snuggle closer to Sherlock again and close his eyes.

"I like the idea of you having me naked too," Sherlock mumbled into the pillow. Then he looked up. "Do you have to leave right away or do we have time for a morning snog?"

John smiled and quickly glanced at the clock. "Time or not, I can't resist you." Putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, he leaned over to softly press his lips on his lover's. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close, quickly turning the kiss from soft to more insistent.

John hummed against his lips, but dutifully pulled back and stroked his face. "Later," he smiled.

Sherlock pouted, but his eyes twinkled. "I can't wait," he said, before pulling John in for one more kiss.

John grinned, not remembering ever waking up feeling so happy. It took a short mental struggle before he convinced himself to get out of the bed and into the cold air.

Sherlock turned over in the bed, and pulled the covers up so they almost covered his head. He wondered if he could somehow manage to sleep through the entire day, so that when he woke, John would be back.

Before John closed the bedroom door behind him, he looked into the room one last time, a happy smile around his lips. He could start counting the hours until he was back, and at least it was his second-last week of work.

Fortunately, the day passed quickly, helped along by texting Sherlock during his short lunch break. Mary and his other colleagues were surprised to find him so cheerful, but he didn't bother explaining how much more complete his life was with Sherlock finally back. After work, he hurried to the flat where Sherlock had stayed during their time apart, feeling far more energetic than exhausted. With Sherlock's belongings next to him in the cab, he couldn't help grinning during the whole ride home.

' _On my way. You know how I expect you to be waiting,'_  he texted to Sherlock, smirking at his phone.

Sherlock had soon given up his plans of sleeping through the day. He was simply too restless with all the happiness and anticipation flooding his system. So instead, he had wrapped himself in a sheet, and wandered around the flat, familiarising himself with it again. Then he had brought John's laptop to the sofa and spent a couple of hours searching for new potential cases. 

Somewhere along the way, he was distracted by thoughts of exactly what he could and would do to John in the near future. The result was that when he received John's text, he was more eager than ever to have him home, in his arms and preferably in bed as quickly as possible. He rushed to the bathroom for a quick shower and then went to wait for John in the bedroom.

When he entered the flat, John simply dropped the two bags in the living room. They would take care of those later, when at some point Sherlock would need clothes again, so probably in the very distant future.

Opening the bedroom door, he smirked and took a moment to fully appreciate the sight that greeted him. "Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock lay sprawled on the bed, only partially covered up. He smiled at John. "Hi."

"So, do you want me naked immediately, or would you rather slowly unwrap the package?" John asked innocently.

Sherlock tossed the sheet aside and got to his feet. "You just stay right there," he said, as he approached John slowly.

"Interesting," John said with an approving look.

Sherlock smiled and shushed him before kissing him.  John eagerly answered the kiss, his hands stroking over Sherlock's upper arms. Sherlock took his time kissing John thoroughly before taking a step back and looking at him. "I love you," he said, smiling, and then took hold of John's jumper and pulled it up and off in one quick movement.

"I love you too," John said, smiling and licking his lips with anticipation. He wondered what exactly Sherlock had planned.

Slowly, Sherlock removed the rest of John's clothes, pausing to place kisses on his skin as it was uncovered. When he finally had him completely naked, he took a step back and looked at him. "God, you're beautiful," he said.

John gave him a fond smile, goose bumps appearing all over his skin for a moment, as if it was giving a pleased hum at Sherlock's intense look. "So are you."

Sherlock stepped close again, pressing their bodies together as he kissed John, more hungrily this time. Then he wrapped his arms around him and lifted him a little off the floor. Keeping his lips locked on John's, he carried him to the bed and laid him down, settling on top of him.

John smiled against his lips, stroking Sherlock's back and pulling him closer against him. Sherlock continued kissing John as he reached for the lube on the nightstand. With practised ease, he slicked up his fingers while still keeping his other hand occupied caressing John. Then he shifted his body to the side enough to reach down between John's legs and began to tease him open.

John hummed contently, tensing only for a second - more out of anticipation than that anything at all felt uncomfortable - before he relaxed and let Sherlock dominate the kiss and his whole body. Sherlock moved very slowly, both to enjoy the feeling of John's body yielding to him, and because the memory of that rough _taking_ in the park still haunted him a little.

John moaned softly, moving over Sherlock's fingers. "Yes," he whispered.

When Sherlock had two fingers in and felt John relaxing completely around them, he searched out the spot and began massaging it slowly. John gasped and started making small noises, not able to keep his hips still. "So good..." He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock, his expression open and admiring.

Sherlock began thrusting his fingers slowly. He held John's eyes with his, letting all his love and desperate longing shine through clearly.

"I love you so much," John gasped, lifting his hand to pull Sherlock into a slow kiss.

Sherlock returned the kiss and then slowly pulled his fingers out and settled between John's legs. "I love you more than I can say," he whispered.

John softly stroked his shoulders. "You don't have to say it. I know. It's clear from everything you do, and I love you just as much. Now please..." He gave Sherlock a nod.

Keeping his eyes locked on John's, Sherlock pushed in slowly. Then he paused and kissed him again.

John moaned and shifted slightly, gently sucking on Sherlock's bottom lip. Soon, he felt more than comfortable and encouragingly stroked Sherlock's back. Sherlock continued the kiss as he began moving, slowly at first. He worked his arms under John's shoulders and held him as close as he possibly could.

John groaned with pleasure, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands. A somewhat harder thrust made him gasp and tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock lifted himself up on his elbows and looked down at John as he began moving faster. "Look at me," he whispered.

"God, yes," John sighed, getting lost in the pale eyes. He reached between them and wrapped a hand around his cock. "Hmm, Sherlock..."

"John..." was all Sherlock could manage as he watched him intently, not wanting to miss a fraction of a second of seeing John this way.

John moaned and made his hand speed up on his cock, struggling not to close his eyes in pleasure. He was a gasping mess, completely falling apart, but as long as Sherlock kept doing exactly what he was doing now, that was more than fine.

Sherlock tried matching the speed of John's hand, completely caught up in the sight, sounds and feeling. Suddenly he realised that he could not keep it up much longer. "John..." he muttered. "I want... I need you to come... for me."

John nodded almost frantically, increasing the pressure on his cock as he reached up to kiss Sherlock again. The combination of all those feelings and being completely enveloped in Sherlock was enough, certainly with Sherlock's cock moving slickly inside him and reaching all the right spots, and for a moment he stilled, before his orgasm hit him hard. He clung to Sherlock, almost sobbing his name.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off John, and the moment his climax hit him, he felt his own approaching rapidly. Finally he gave in and closed his eyes as he was overcome, crying out in total abandon.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close and kissing his temple. Sherlock rested his head against John's shoulder as the world slowly returned around him.

John gently stroked his back. "I really love to touch you," he mumbled, lazily nuzzling the curls.

"Then never stop," Sherlock muttered as he eased himself out and rolled to lie next to John. "That was even better than I had imagined."

John smiled and snuggled against him, pressing his leg between Sherlock's just to be closer.

Sherlock held John close for a long moment, then chuckled. "John..." he said. "Could we..."

John laughed and fondly kissed his lips. "Come on then."

Sherlock got up and then reached for John's hand and pulled him into a lazy kiss, before heading for the bathroom.

Once under the shower they continued kissing, as their hands once more reclaimed each other's bodies. Sherlock's mind staggered under the realisation that he had almost denied himself all this out of injured pride and frustration. He made a solemn vow to himself to never again do anything to jeopardise what they had. No matter how bored or angry he got.

After the shower, they wrapped themselves in bathrobes to keep out the cold. This time, John took one of Sherlock's bathrobes out of the bags for the taller man, but they didn't bother to unpack further and just snuggled up on the sofa, Sherlock on top of John. John was just busy untying the ribbon around Sherlock's waist so he could slip in his hand to reach the warm skin of his back, when familiar footsteps came up the stairs.

"Hello, John, dear. Are you alright? I didn't hear- oooh." Mrs. Hudson's face turned into a happy smile. "Welcome back, Sherlock."

Sherlock, who had been busying himself with John's left earlobe raised his head, wet curls almost covering his eye. "Thanks," he said with a smile.

"It's a good thing you're back. John was even sulkier than you on your worst days, without you," Mrs. Hudson said, making John laugh.

"Come now, Mrs. Hudson, don't exaggerate," he grinned.

"Still, I _told_ you he'd come back. It was just a question of time before you boys were wrapped up in each other again like you are now." She raised the bag of biscuits in her hand. "Just came to bring you this. Don't let me keep you." She winked the sort of wink that made John blush, put her baking goods on the table and left the flat again.

"Sulkier than me?" Sherlock teased. "I'd like to have seen that." He dug his fingers into John's sides.

John chuckled. "If you had seen it, there would have been no reason for all that." He caught Sherlock's hands and kissed him in defence.

Sherlock giggled into the kiss, trying to wrestle his hands free. "I should have put up a hidden camera... Come to think of it, maybe Mycroft already did... I wonder if he's kept copies... of everything."

John struggled a little until he had Sherlock pressed against the back on the sofa, lying on his side. "You would have found it terribly dull, though," he said, suddenly more serious, even though his nose was almost touching Sherlock's. "My life without you, I mean."

"It can't have been more dull than my life without you," Sherlock countered and leaned in pressing a quick kiss to John's lips.

John smiled and wiped the wet curls from Sherlock's forehead. "I love you. Tea?"

Sherlock snorted. "I love you too and yes please."

John giggled. "You know you'll always have to share my love with tea," he teased, getting up to go to the kitchen.

Sherlock lay on his back for a moment, looking at the ceiling, a very pleased smile on his face. Then he chuckled. "John?" he called. "I'm bored."

John laughed and almost ran towards him, the kettle completely forgotten. "Oh, you idiot," he grinned, pulling Sherlock into a hug and kissing him. "You perfect, amazing idiot."


	54. Commentary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is being posted at the same time as the last chapter. If you’ve missed the end of the story in chapter 53, you should probably go back and read that first.

_Jlocked:_

Right, so how did _What have we become?_ become what it did? For me it started with getting Netflix. It didn't take me long to become hopelessly addicted to BBC shows. Or more specifically: _Sherlock_ , _Doctor Who_ and _Torchwood_. The problem with following these shows, I found out, after rushing through all the old episodes, is that there's a lot of waiting involved.

So I went online, looking for any kind of behind-the-scenes stuff or other trivia to carry me through. And then I stumbled upon fanfiction. I read some really good stuff and I read a lot of really bad stuff. So, at some point I thought: I can do better than that, and began writing. I must admit I was more than a little surprised when I started getting my first reviews. People actually wanted to read my silliness.

I was, of course, still on the hunt for good fics and one night, while struggling with writer's block, I came across a small, OOC and rather poorly written Johnlock piece. What caught my attention was the note at the beginning, saying something like: this just happened on Omegle. So I thought: 'What is that?' and off I went. I had a few interesting chats about the merits of Benedict Cumberbatch and why we all want to move to Cardiff, but what I was really looking for, was the kind of roleplaying I had seen in the fic.

I was about to despair, which resulted in me starting a conversation with the single word: 'Bored!'. To my great surprise, the stranger answered: 'Then do something, Sherlock.' I just sat there staring for a moment. This was it. My chance to try Sherlock roleplaying. So I metaphorically closed my eyes and jumped in with both feet.

I can't remember how long we played, but I think it was several hours. At the end I was practically falling asleep at the laptop. But we got the story to a point that seemed logical to end it and began saying goodnight. Then I had an idea and asked if it was okay if I turned it into a fic. We exchanged emails and I got to work.

That roleplay is basically the first chapter of _WHWB_.

 

_The Lady of Purpletown:_

In my memory, that chat happened very fast, though. The way I remember it, it was less than an hour. I was bored that evening (or didn't want to do more useful things, more probably). And then what is better to chase boredom than going to Omegle for a roleplay? I think that at that point I had even forgotten that people can as well go to Omegle to just talk and not rp, so my reaction to the word "Bored!" was only logical. Not that I do it that frequently, and most of the time you don't find a writer who really goes along with what you have in mind. Even if you get to exchanging emails in the end, the collaboration hardly ever lasts. So I must admit that I had never expected that it would become a whole story of respectable length. (And then another, and another, but more about that later.) For me it was just a bit of fun before I went to do something else.

I'm sorry to hear that I was so boring that you were falling asleep at your laptop, Jlocked ;)

 

_Jlocked:_

Yes. That was what I said. You were so boring I decided to keep on writing with you.

Anyway. The fic was put online and got a pretty decent response. Then one of us (I can't remember who and can't be bothered to go back and check, though I do in fact still have all the old emails somewhere) suggested that we could continue the story. So I wrote the beginning of chapter 2, which was really a breach of protocol since I was actually writing John's point of view (sorry about the character theft), but let's not dwell on that. The Lady of Purpletown (okay, there's no way I'm writing that every time, so from here on in you're just 'Lady', sorry about that). Anyway: 'Lady' suggested that one of them should get hurt and that would take them to a new level, and we decided on it being John. And then things just sort of took off. Every now and then one of us would suggest that this was a good place to end a chapter, and we'd start a new one. I'd piece the story together, we'd both proofread and then I'd put it online.

 

_TLoP:_

Writing continued and actually became even more fun as we went. Then Jlocked went to London.

 

_Jlocked:_

Someone objects to being called 'Lady', so I'll be nice and use TLoP, though it does sound rather odd when said out loud...  
Anyways: I was standing on a street in Camden, smoking (which, kids, is something I very rarely do and you definitely should not). I was wearing my long grey coat and purple scarf and feeling extremely Sherlocky. Then I looked up and right into the eyes of John Watson. Okay, it was actually a poster for _The Hobbit_ on the side of a bus going by, but I think you know what I mean. So, I thought: we should put this in our story: Sherlock and John seeing each other across a busy street. But in order for it to be significant, it should be after having been apart for some time. So I went back to the place I was staying, borrowed some wifi and sent my idea. And then we got to work.

 

_TLoP:_

Anyone who isn't a dog would object to being called 'Lady'!

I remember I was nagging about the smoking :P A true John, yes indeed. 

The thing was, we were only somewhere around chapter 12-13 at that time. That means we had a lot of building-up to do. After all, our boys were perfectly happy together at that point. No way of separating them with all the fluff that was going on. So, evil as we are, we needed a way to put them under stress. Therefore we needed a nice, complicated case.

 

_Jlocked:_

Lady was actually my name for you in the beginning. Not anymore though.

And yes, I remember the nagging too.

Before we got onto the case though, we also decided that Sherlock being hurt and forced into inactivity for a prolonged period, was a good place to start. And so Harris came into being. But as Sherlock slowly recovered, we found the boys were getting way too cosy, so we needed something more. Mycroft was mentioned and then The Case (or The Bookcase) began forming.

 

_TLoP:_

Yeah, I can imagine that 'The Lady of Purpletown' isn't the easiest name to think of someone. 'Locked' on the other hand works fine.

It actually was my turn to think of a case, and somehow I really couldn't come up with anything. All I could think of, was "something with old books". Very helpful. But to Jlocked's brilliant mind, it turned out it was enough, and she started on working out a whole book code, meanwhile giving me the tip to watch _The ninth gate_.

 

_Jlocked:_

I was not too fond of that brilliant mind, though, when it became time to describe how Sherlock broke that bloody code. Gave me quite a few headaches.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, because once we had settled on the case, we also had to figure out how they should solve it with Sherlock still recovering. The answer was obvious: doing a 'the hiker and the backfire' bit with John going into the field and Sherlock working from home. Then the idea for the professor was born and soon Ian followed. I was actually surprised that only one reviewer caught on to what we did there: yes, I admit it, he was based rather heavily on our favourite 'tea boy', Ianto from Torchwood. I can't remember how his crush on Sherlock came about though. But it was probably my idea, because I kind of have this thing for... Second thought, let's not go there.

 

_TLoP:_

*clears throat*

I had quite some fun writing Owain. Apparently the quirky old man role suits me well, but of course he had only a small part.

The Latin in our story on the other hand had not. And it was a bloody bitch :P After a few remarks that the Important Old Book in our story should have a name, Jlocked eventually had the - once again brilliant - idea to call it _Abscondita in aperto -_ 'hidden in plain sight'. Not a reviewer who thought of translating the stuff :P

 

_Jlocked._

I know. Why do we even bother being so terribly clever, when nobody notices? Oh, I know. Because we enjoy being terribly clever.

I was actually being a bit self-indulgent there. My first attempt at a Johnlock fic was originally called _Hidden in plain sight_ , because it's just such a brilliant Moffaty line. But then I found out that I was far from the only one to have had that idea and I had to change it. Here was a chance to finally use it, no way was I going to pass up on that. And in the end, it ended up fitting both the subject of the book (which was decided upon, at the very last minute and with very little thought put into it) and the way the code worked.

Actually, forget what I just said: the title of the book was based on careful consideration of its intended effect on the story, its subject matter was a clever reference both to the code and our way of writing and the whole thing came together in a well-planned and -executed symbiosis.

And then of course there was the layout of Gryffydd Hall...

 

_TloP:_

You're not referring to the horrible "drawing" I used to write John's avoid-the-sensor scene, are you?

 

_Jlocked:_

It was not horrible. It was a sketch. And it was very helpful.

 

_TLoP:_

Well, thanks, I guess. I'd rather call it proof that proportions and straight lines mean nothing to me.

 

_Jlocked:_

Right. Where were we?

Owain and Ian. Gryffydd Hall... Oh yes, right. When we thought up the case, we had decided that the book had disappeared from a locked room that was impossible to break into. Why else bring in Sherlock Holmes for a missing book, right? But now, it fell to us (i.e. me) to find out how the theft actually happened, so Sherlock could explain it in the end. That nearly brought the story to a halt, I think. Sometimes I suspect that John and Ian were really sent to Belfast to buy me more time to figure out how the thief had pulled it off.  
Maybe I should not be admitting that...?  


_TLoP:_

Hmm, I don't actually remember. Would we ever dare to do such a thing?

Miss Leia also was a lot of fun though. She was so wrong in every possible way. And she was good at making our dear Ian blush.

 

_Jlocked:_

Yes, too bad we couldn't keep her around, but it really wouldn't have made any sense.

So Belfast and then Blackpool. And then, right in the middle of the fight with Fitzroy, I go: 'hey, I know: let's have him impale himself on the knife while John is holding it.'

It was one of those ideas that just worked. And ultimately it helped us reach the desired crisis in so many ways, that I really don't know what we would have done without it.

(Am I bragging here? Should I stop?)

With Fitzroy in the hospital, we could finally get to a part I had been looking forward to because I am really a rather evil person: breaking Ian's heart.

 

_TLoP:_

Oh, don't worry about it, I'm used to your bragging ;) But it's completely justified, it _did_ work.

Of course, I'm not really evil *ahem*, but I couldn't let Ian think that he could have Sherlock, so I gladly went along in that plan.

For a while, it seemed like Sherlock and John were almost getting too close again to get our plan to separate them to work. But of course The Evil Lady Jlocked also had an explanation for that: make them closer now, and it will hurt more when it finally happens. From that moment on, John was getting frustrated because he couldn't do much to help Sherlock with the code, a start in building the tension.

Maybe this is a good moment for Jlocked to elaborate a little on the book code?

 

_Jlocked:_

I suppose I must. See, this is something TLoP is very good at: putting me to work.

Okay, as explained in the story, the differing words, when connected, form Roman numerals. The numerals are:

III - VI - V - VII - IV - VIII - IX - VII - VI - II - II - II - V - II - I - VII - IV - IV -  IX -  III -  VI -  VII -  V - VII - V - VIII - II - IX - I - IX – IX

Grouped together, by the number of pages between them, and translated to Arabic numerals they are:

365 - 748 - 976 - 222 - 521 - 744 - 936 - 757 - 582 - 919 - 9

The clue as to what to do with these numbers is the single 9 at the end. When doing sums of digits, you can never really end up with the result 9, because 9 in this particular case is the same as 0.

How is 9 the same as 0, you ask? Well, whether you have “9 + 1 + 9”, “9 + 1” or just “1”, the result is always the same: 1. So the 9 doesn’t matter, or in more mathematical terms, equals 0.

This was the clue that, along with well-timed words from John, helped Sherlock figure out the, relatively simple, mathematical technique needed to break the code.

Doing the sums left Sherlock with:

5 - 1 - 4 - 6 - 8 - 7 - 6 - 0 - 1 - 6 - 1 – 9

He had no idea what to do with this, until John once again came to his aid and pointed out the 'punctuation'. He added that and ended up with:

51.4686 and -0.1619

And those are (according to the internet) the coordinates for Westminster Abbey.

Okay, that's enough of me being a complete geek.

Care to explain the Latin?

 

_TloP:_

Who doesn't like geeks? ^^

To get to the code, we had to give an example of how Sherlock found it in the book. Like you all remember, he observed that here and there in the two copies, words were different from the other version. To make that stand out, the two different sentences had to be slightly nonsensical, but if you took one of the changed words from each, it should form the actual sentence and make sense. In this example, the structure had to be: same - changed - same - same - changed. (Yes, I just copied that from your mail, Jlocked. Putting you to work and being lazy myself. Who is actually the evil one?)

In the first version, the Latin phrases didn't really have any grammar. And since we (well, Jlocked) had worked so hard on the book code, I thought that it was a little strange if our Latin suddenly hadn't gotten any attention, so I decided to correct it. Only, it appeared that the time when I had learned Latin at school was longer ago than I realised and I had simply forgotten everything, so it involved a lot of looking up, changing things that made the whole sentence change and thus also the two others, et cetera. All in all it took a lot more time than I had foreseen. But it was worth it, of course :P

I'm not going to give you the whole explanation of the grammar or you'll all fall asleep. Just the meaning of the sentences, then:

 _Quoddam verba habent multos fines._ = 'Some words have many endings/purposes.'

 _Quoddam inventa habent multos sensos._ = 'Some inventions/discoveries have many meanings.'

 _Quoddam verba habent multos sensos._ = 'Some words have many meanings.' (or _Quoddam inventa habent multos fines_ would have made 'Some inventions have many purposes.' - but that wasn't so telling for what we were doing here.)

By the way, I am aware that the verb would come last in the sentence if we really wanted to do 'proper' Latin, but then it wouldn't have worked for our code, because the last word of the sentence would always have been the same.

 

_Jlocked:_

A lot of work for something that didn't really take up that much place in the story, but I think both of us write better if we know everything that's going on and that we're doing it right.

And then it was time for the part we called: 'we really don't want to do this, but it's for the story': the breakup.

We had been working towards it for a very long time by then and suddenly it was just... there. And I know for my part, I almost backed down, thinking: we can't do this to these poor boys. They've been through so much already.

But as I already told you, I am a very evil creature, and break them up we did. And then, just to make things worse, I decided to send Sherlock to Cardiff, right into the arms of Ian. I must admit I was pretty chuffed about the response we got on that bit of the story. I think we both were. So thank you to those of you who took the time to write comments. It was very much appreciated.

But Sherlock was, of course, never going to go through with it. He didn't need a fawning pretty-boy. He needed John. So we started on the part we had been looking forward to: bringing them back together.

 

_TloP:_

Meanwhile, John had gotten a job, since there was no Sherlock to lend him his bank card. I intended to tell some things about his job, so hmm, why not about his boss? Making her a Sarah type would perhaps help to get him over it... (Not.) The decision for her name was made within seconds. “Look at the panic in our fans' eyes if we call her Mary (Morstan).” Jlocked, as the evil thing she is, agreed immediately of course. But John was never even going to date her. Just like Sherlock, he wasn't quite ready for someone else (and never would be).

The first time the boys saw each other again, would be by accident, in the way Jlocked had thought of in London. That had to be the breaking point in their thoughts; from that moment on, all they wanted was to have the other back in their life. And in John's case, maybe to make them quit smoking :P

 

_Jlocked:_

Again with the smoking. Do you guys see what I have to work with?

So they see each other and immediately they can think about nothing else. But of course they're both too stubborn/confused/scared/emotionally obtuse to act on it. So fate, in the form of Harris, intervenes.

We had planned quite early on that they should get together for a case, but the nature of the case was settled on, I believe, at almost the last minute. We wanted a chase, a fight, lots of adrenaline and a shared look. And then of course, the tree-thing happened...  


_TLoP:_

How could it not happen, with all the adrenaline we had managed to put in? 

Of course, they hadn't talked about anything and that was the moment for embarrassment. A lot of it. We didn't really plan beforehand how things would be once they were both back in Baker Street, so we discovered it along with the boys. Sherlock had the very clever idea to sneak into John's bed and there they were; the location for the Talk was chosen. You've all seen that it turned out pretty well.

 

_Jlocked:_

And then the end was upon us. We had a list of elements that we wanted to squeeze in before the final words, and as we passed through them, it started dawning on both of us that not only the story, but the work with writing it, would soon be over. None of us were too happy about that, I think.  
So we did the logical thing: we started planning our next story.

 

_TLoP:_

Yes, fortunately. I really didn't want to stop writing with Jlocked, we had far too much fun together.

So we started thinking what our next story was about - would we just continue with a sequel on _What have we become_ or would we look at other fandoms we had in common? A few ideas passed, and in the end we settled on a Torchwood/Sherlock crossover. The result can be found in [_When their paths crossed_](../../1046914).

 

_Jlocked:_

I too was very relieved that we could continue working together. It isn't everyday you find someone you just click with on so many points.

And as it turns out, our new story is actually only part 1. Part 2 is already on the way (as soon as we figure out some minor points. The plot, for example...)

But now, _WHWB_ is over, and we hope you have enjoyed reading it, as much as we have writing it. Thank you to everyone who took the time to send us kudos and comments.

Did we miss anything?

 

_TLoP:_

That's how we work. The details take hours and the plot is something we decide in seconds on the last moment :P

We did miss something though. Let's not make them as frustrated as Sherlock and tell something about the journal.

 

_Jlocked:_

Right, we don't want anyone else splitting up over this. The journal has of course been destroyed, as Mycroft said it would be, and its true contents will never be known. The writer was a young girl who might have been the illegitimate offspring of someone of royal blood. Fitzroy believed that the journal contained proof that his bloodline, and therefore himself, was the true heir to the British throne. Mycroft just knew that whatever was in it would stir up old things that might cause problems or embarrassment for the royal family. And Sherlock will never know, but he got John back, so he doesn't care...

 

_TLoP:_

With that, I think we have said everything we wanted to say. Come along, my dear Jlocked, let's go write another story.

 

_Jlocked:_

Certainly, my dear. You start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We originally wrote this commentary for fanfiction.net. The version of the story here on AO3 has been revised, so a little more time has passed and we have written more stories than the ones we mentioned here.  
> On the very day we publish this, WHWB does in fact celebrate its first anniversary. Hooray!


End file.
